dinner and the Follies and afterward to Jazzbo's, a dancery. Me and Ptomaine Joe was along with 'em as ballast, so there was plenty shaperoans; but still and all I couldn't help feelin' that the Kid was monkeyin' with nitroglycerine by playin' around with this fiery little damsel from dear old St. Thérèse.
The featured comedian of our gay little party was Mons. Ptomaine Joe. This mug was a riot, no foolin'! I don't think he'd ever had a good time in his life before and in a hired dress suit he's all swelled up like a human yeast cake, upstagin' one and all as if he was Duke of Pneumonia. The leased evenin' wear fits this two-hundred-pound giggle like the skin fits under a turkey's chin—in fact, about the only thing Joseph could ever get to fit him ready-made would be a scarfpin. Kiddin' him on his weird appearance was a waste of witty remarks. Joe was more than well satisfied with himself, and when he's a sight to make a mummy guffaw, he looks me over carefully and then coolly remarks that people which lives in tin houses shouldn't throw can openers!
Well, Kid Roberts spends the next few days and quite a few pennies showin' Désirée and her father the sights of New York, and through a friend of his in the show business he likewise gets this charmer's name filed with a theatrical agency. Of course none of this makes Désirée sore at him, and me and poor broken-hearted Ptomaine Joe watch her gettin' further in love daily with feelin's of the greatest alarm. So far the only word the Kid has had from his wife was a cable so cold it could of been signed "Zero."
