ave in Harlem.

Now, I ain't in love with tea at any time of the day except for supper,
and I sure would pass it up just after breakfast, but I don't know as
I'd break my neck to get away from it, same's the old gent was doin'.
The minute he gets a look at the wagon comin' his way he does some
lively side-steppin'. Then he jumps behind a bush and hides, givin' me
the sign not to let on.

The long-legged guy knew his business, though. He came straight on, like
he was followin' a scent, and the first thing old Whitey knows he's been
run down. He gives in then, just as if he'd been tagged.

"Babbitt," says he, "I had you hull down at one time, didn't I?"

But either Babbitt was too much out of breath, or else he wasn't the
talkative kind, for he never says a word, but just opens up the top of
the cart and proceeds to haul out some bottles and a glass. First he
spoons out some white powder into a tumbler. Then he pours in some water
and stirs it with a spoon. When the mess is done he sticks it out to the
old gent. The old one never lifts a finger, though.

"Salute, first, you frozen-faced scum of the earth!" he yells. "Salute,
sir!"

Babbitt made a stab at salutin' too, and mighty sudden.

"Now, you white-livered imitation of a man," says the old gent, "you may
hand over that villainous stuff! Bah!" and he takes a sniff of it.

Babbitt keeps his eyes glued on him until the last drop was down, then
he jumped. Lucky he was quick on the duck, for the glass just whizzed
over the top of his head. While he was stowin' the things away the old
fellow let loose. Say, you talk about a cussin', I'll bet you never
heard a string like that. It wasn't the longshoreman's kind. But the way
he put together straight dictionary words was enough to give you a
chill. It was the rattlin' style he had of rippin' 'em out, too, that
made it sound like swearin'. If there was any part of that long-legged
guy that he didn't pay his respects to, from his ears to his toe-nails,
I didn't notice it.

"It's the last time you get any of that slush into me, Babbitt," says
he. "Do you hear that, you peanut-headed, scissor-shanked whelp?"

"Ten-thirty's the next dose, Commodore," says he as he starts off.

"It is, eh, you wall-eyed deck swab?" howls the Commodore. "If you mix
any more of that infant food for me I'll skin you alive, and sew you up
hind side before. Do you hear that, you?"

I was wearin' a broad grin when the old Commodore turns aro