We worked the Eastern Coast that first winter, all the big cities excepting New York. The bulls were out for Bud there, and he usually fought clear of the Big Burg—and the day came when I most devoutly thanked God for that, since it left me with a clear record on Manhattan Island and allowed me later on to start over again, when the chance came. Bud flossed me out with a Bonwit-Teller hand-me-down and I joined him at Albany. Then we beat it to Boston and worked the Bean-Town suburbs harnessed for a course dinner. Sometimes I'd brace the bell, and sometimes Bud would. When no one answered the ring Bud would slip in through a side window and make his clean-up. I'd play gay-cat while he dug for glass and junk. Sometime I'd even have to do the dummy-chucker act or spill a faint, to give him a chance for his getaway.
How the old words and the old way of looking up things came back, as I went over those days again! It seemed the only way to describe the tricks of the old trade. For instance, when an alarm went up and Bud seemed to be in for a rumble, I'd swoon. I'd wait until the crowd got big enough and then I'd flop right down, happy-hems and all. I even got the trick of making myself go white, when I wanted
