“Yes, I’ve cut into the ‘Nation’s Peril’ and the ‘Cryin’ Evil’ good and strong—­walkin’ out from the stinks of the Union Stock Yards, of Chicago, into the limelight of publicity, via the ’drunk and disorderly’ route.

“You see I got those ten carloads of steers into the city all right, but I was so blame busy splatterin’ through the tracked-up wastes of the cow pens, an’ inhalin’ the sewer gas of the west side that I never got to see a newspaper.  If I’d ‘a’ read one, here’s what I’d ‘a’ found, namely:  The greatest, stubbornest, riotin’est strike ever known, which means a heap for Chicago, she being the wet-nurse of labour trouble.

“The whole river front was tied up.  Nary a steamer had whistled inside the six-mile crib for two weeks, and eight thousand men was out.  There was hold-ups and blood-sheddin’ and picketin’, which last is an alias for assault with intents, and altogether it was a prime place for a cowman, on a quiet vacation—­just homelike and natural.

“It was at this point that I enters, bustin’ out of the smoke of the Stock Yards, all sweet and beautiful, like the gentle heeroine in the play as she walks through the curtains at the back of the stage.

“Now you know there’s a heap of difference between the Stock Yards and Chicago—­it’s just like coming from Arkansas over into the United States.

“Well, soon as I sold the stock I hit for the lake front and began to ground sluice the coal dust off of my palate.

“I was busy working my booze hydraulic when I see an arid appearin’ pilgrim ‘longside lookin’ thirsty as an alkali flat.

“‘Get in,’ says I, and the way he obeyed orders looked like he’d had military training.  I felt sort of drawed to him from the way he handled his licker; took it straight and runnin’ over; then sopped his hands on the bar and smelled of his fingers.  He seemed to just soak it up both ways—­reg’lar human blotter.

“‘You lap it up like a man,’ says I, ’like a cowman—­full growed—­ever been West?’

“‘Nope,’ says he, ‘born here.’

“‘Well I’m a stranger,’ says I, ‘out absorbin’ such beauties of architecture and free lunch as offers along the line.  If I ain’t keepin’ you up, I’d be glad of your company.’

“‘I’m your assistant lunch buster,’ says he, and in the course of things he further explained that he was a tugboat fireman, out on a strike, givin’ me the follerin’ information about the tie-up:—­

“It all come up over a dose of dyspepsia—­”

“Back up,” interrupted Kink squirming, “are you plumb bug?  Get together!  You’re certainly the Raving Kid.  Ye must have stone bruised your heel and got concession of the brain.”

“Yes sir!  Indigestion,” Billings continued.  “Old man Badrich, of the Badrich Transportation Company has it terrible.  It lands on his solar every morning about nine o’clock, gettin’ worse steady, and reaches perihelion along about eleven.  He can tell the time of day by taste.  One morning when his mouth felt like about ten-forty-five in comes a committee from Firemen & Engineers Local No. 21, with a demand for more wages, proddin’ him with the intimations that if he didn’t ante they’d tie up all his boats.”