when she got nearer still me and High Jack Snakefeeder grabbed each other to keep from tumbling down on the floor; for the girl’s face was as much like Florence Blue Feather’s as his was like old King Toxicology’s.
“And then was when High Jack’s booze drowned his system of ethnology. He dragged me inside back of the statue, and says:
“‘Lay hold of it, Hunky. We’ll pack it into the other room. I felt it all the time,’ says he. ‘I’m the reconsideration of the god Locomotorataxia, and Florence Blue Feather was my bride a thousand years ago. She has come to seek me in the temple where I used to reign.’
“‘All right,’ says I. ‘There’s no use arguing against the rum question. You take his feet.’
“‘We lifted the three-hundred-pound stone god, and carried him into the back room of the café—the temple, I mean—and leaned him against the wall. It was more work than bouncing three live ones from an all-night Broadway joint on New-Year’s Eve.
“Then High Jack ran out and brought in a couple of them Indian silk shawls and began to undress himself.
“‘Oh, figs!’ says I. ‘Is it thus? Strong
