nd call me Rabelais, Mike. We're pals, aren't we?"

"You bet," I assures him. And I mean it. Not because of the dough.
That makes me sweat. I can't figure where this little guy gets such a
wad. And good money, too.

He sets them up three times. By now he's feeling fine. I suggest he
get going before he misses the last train home.

"I already missed it," he says proudly. "And I'm not going home. Let
the old battle-axe really have something to complain about. Beer,
Mike!"

[Illustration]

In a way I hate to see it, but then I figure a man has a right to let
off a little steam once every thirty-one years. Even so, I get a
little worried when he asks for the phone and calls up his wife.

He says, "Myrtle, this Rabelais. Rabelais, your husband, you old sow."
He takes a breath and says, "You're damned right I'm drunk. And I'm
staying that way. Go home to your mother.... Oh yes, you are. You're
leaving on the 12:05 tomorrow and you'll eat chicken a la king on the
train and fall asleep at Holt's Corner and snore all the way home. And
your mother will be mad because her left fender will get dented on the
way to the station." Bang! He hangs up.

"Beer, Mike."

"Now look, Mr.--Rabelais--"

He ignores me. "Mike, who owns this place?"

I don't, but I'd like to. I tell him who my boss is and he hunts him
up in the phone book and calls him. He says, "This is Rabelais Pettis.
I want to buy your Fifth Avenue Tavern. How much?... Sold!"

And so help me, the boss comes down and Rabelais hauls bills from
every pocket and lays it on the bar in a great big pile. Then he has
the boss sign the place over to me. Me, Mike Murphy. I figure tomorrow
when he wakes up broke I'll have to give it back. But tonight I own
it. I'm real proud.

But I don't get to enjoy it. He says, "Mike, let's do the town." Can
you refuse a guy who just gives you a thirty thousand dollar property?
We do the town. We do the girl shows, and he yells at all the dames
and tries to date the usherettes until we finally get pitched out. We
get pitched out of five before I steer him to a hash house.

"Phooey," he says. "We'll go to the Buster for a steak." That's our
fanciest place where the food starts at ten dollars. We have two of
the biggest steaks I ever saw with champagne and stuff, and so help
me, when Rabelais tries to date the floor show girls, instead of
getting pitched out, we walk out with two of the cutest kids I ever
hope to see. Only they're young