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I had simply got my check cashed every week in a cigar-store next door that was known to be a policy-shop for the special accommodation of Police Headquarters in those days, and the check had gone straight into the "backer's" bank-account. That was how. But, as I said, it was hopeless to try to explain, and I didn't.
Merrihew knew that he should love Florence all the rest of his days. They were entering the Via Tornabuoni, toward the Havana cigar-store, when a young woman came out of the little millinery shop a few doors from the tobacconist's. Immediately Hillard stepped to one side of her and Merrihew to the other. "You can not run away this time, Kitty Killigrew!" cried Merrihew joyously.
Suddenly: "Say, Morty, I know an awful nice guy down here in a cigar-store. Let's go down and see him." "All right." Tom Poppins was very cordial to them. He dragged brown canvas stools out of the tobacco-scented room where cigars were made, and the three of them squatted in the back of the store, while Tom gossiped of the Juarez races, Taft, cigar-wrappers, and Jews.
The blame tent caught fire one night when it was filled with people, and she had such a wholesome recollection of the bale stick that she kept as still as a cigar-store Indian until we had cleared the place and put the fire out. "'Jim, says Merritt as he looked her over admiringly after that experience, 'there is a great advantage in having a squaw for the top part of that there fish.
Before I'd clumb the crick bank ag'in that cap was as stiff as one o' them tin helmets ye read about them knights wearin' in the middle ages er-haw! haw! haw! "I had ter laig it then, believe me!" pursued the expressman. "Was cased in ice right from my head ter my heels. Could git erlong jest erbout as graceful as one of these here cigar-store Injuns er-haw! haw! haw!
When the men came trooping back, opening letters, tearing wrappers from their newspapers, gossipping, he still sat on the stump as they had left him. Not one of them suspected that he once had left it. "Bright and lively as a cigar-store Indian," he heard one care-free youth exclaim as he went by him.
The cigar-store philosopher remarked casually to the chief of police, "This here savior of the people, Jake Vodell, that's recently descended upon us, is gatherin' to himself a choice bunch of disciples I'll tell the world." "What do you know about it?" demanded the officer of the law. The philosopher grinned. "Oh, they most of them smoke or chew, the same as your cops.
But she looked to see where they were. Not far now. She might miss Howie! With both hands she took hold of the sides of the seat. She was not going to fall forward! Not suffocating. Not until after she had seen him. Now. The detective has left the hotel he is walking along the street. He comes to the cigar-store door, and there steps in to watch. And there comes the dog!
He inquired in a voice quick with sympathy: "I suppose you have a lot of fellows who try to get fresh with you." "Say, gee, do I! Say, listen, there's some of these cigar-store sports that think because a girl's working in a barber shop, they can get away with anything. The things they saaaaaay! But, believe me, I know how to hop those birds!
He went out upon the street, made his way down it, and dropped in at another hotel. There he saw Rufus Shepley sitting in an easy-chair, smoking and looking at an evening paper. Well, he knew Shepley, at least. Shepley was only a steamship acquaintance, but he was a human being and could talk. Prale was just a bit tired of confining his conversation to waiters and cigar-store clerks.
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