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Updated: May 7, 2025
It still lacked an hour or so of daylight. I remembered that there used to be a humble restaurant and kitchen on wheels to the vulgar, a dog-wagon up toward York Street. This wagon, once upon a time, had appeased our appetites when we had been late for chapel and Commons. As an institution it was so trite that once we made of it a fraternity play.
accompanied with a gesture several inches above the head. As the verses progressed it was customary to stand on chairs and to reach up on tiptoe to show the increasing depth. But the dog-wagon has now become a gilded unfamiliar thing, twice its former size and with stools for a considerable company.
And yet, small as it is, it is still big enough for me to approach it the fly-speck, of course by half a dozen different routes. I can come by boat from Rotterdam. Or I can tramp it on foot, or be wheeled in on a dog-wagon. I have tried them all, and know. Being now a staid old painter and past such foolishness, I take the train. Toot!
I faintly remember a pledge to secrecy sworn by the moon and the seven wandering stars but nevertheless I shall divulge the plot. It was a burlesque tragedy in rhyme. Some eighteen years ago, it seems, Brabantio, the noble Venetian Senator, kept this same dog-wagon he and his beautiful daughter Desdemona. Here came Othello, Iago and Cassio of the famous class of umpty-ump.
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