P. here. He was foreign correspondent for
some big New York syndicate papers over there.
"`Well if it ain't Blackie!' he says. `What in Sam
Hill are you doing out of your own cell when Milwaukee's
just got four more games t' win the pennant?'
"Sa-a-a-ay, girl, w'en I got through huggin' him
around the neck an' buyin' him drinks I knew it was me
for the big ship. `Mother,' I says, `if you got anybody
on your mind that you neglected t' send picture postals
to, now's' your last chance. 'F I got to die I'm going
out with m' scissors in one mitt, and m' trusty paste-pot
by m' side!' An' we hits it up for old Milwaukee. I
ain't been away since, except w'en I was out with the
ball team, sending in sportin' extry dope for the pink
sheet. The last time I was in at Baumbach's in comes Von
Gerhard an'--"
"Who are Baumbach's?" I interrupted.
Blackie regarded me pityingly. "You ain't never been
to Baumbach's? Why girl, if you don't know Baumbach's,
you ain't never been properly introduced to Milwaukee.
No wonder you ain't hep to the ways of this little
community. There ain't what the s'ciety editor would
call the proper ontong cordyal between you and the
natives if you haven't had coffee at Baumbach's.
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