titles. I’ve changed me mind about drinkin’—see? You got your money, ain’t you? Wait till you get stung before you get the droop to your lip, will you?”
Thus Mr. Quirk added mutability of desires to the strange humors that had taken possession of him.
Leaving the saloon, he walked away twenty steps and leaned in the open doorway of Lutz, the barber. He and Lutz were friends, masking their sentiments behind abuse and bludgeons of repartee.
“Irish loafer,” roared Lutz, “how do you do? So, not yet haf der bolicemans or der catcher of dogs done deir duty!”
“Hello, Dutch,” said Mr. McQuirk. “Can’t get your mind off of frankfurters, can you?”
“Bah!” exclaimed the German, coming and leaning in the door. “I haf a soul above frankfurters to-day. Dere is springtime in der air. I can feel it coming in ofer der mud of der streets and das ice in der river. Soon will dere be bicnics in der islands, mit kegs of beer under der trees.”
“Say,” said Mr. McQuirk, setting his hat on one side, “is everybody kiddin’ me about gentle Spring? There ain’t any more spring in the air than there is in a horsehair sofa in a Second Avenue furnished room. For me the winter underwear yet and the buckwheat cakes.”
“You haf no boetry,” said Lutz. “True, it is yedt cold, und in der city we haf not many of der signs;
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