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Updated: June 7, 2025
He rounded the corner into Eighth Avenue and darted north among the trucks. At Columbus Circle, the dummy-chucker spoke. "Thanks again, friend," he said. "I'll be steppin' off here." His rescuer glanced at him. "Want to earn a hundred dollars?" "Quitcher kiddin'," said the dummy-chucker. "No, no; this is serious," said the young man. The dummy-chucker leaned luxuriously back in his seat.
Timorously, the dummy-chucker weighed the two possibilities. He felt the dollar in his pocket. At a street in the Forties, he turned westward. Beyond Eighth Avenue there was a place where the shadow of prohibition was only a shadow.
Beautiful women, correctly garbed, distinguished-looking men. Their laughter sounded pleasantly above the subdued strains of the orchestra. Many of them looked at the dummy-chucker. Their eyes rested upon him for that well-bred moment that denotes acceptance. "One of themselves," said the dummy-chucker to himself. Well, why not? Once again he looked at himself in the mirror.
His host watched the operation with interest. "Why?" he asked. "Better than cuttin' the end off," explained the dummy-chucker. "It's a good smoke," he added, puffing. "You know tobacco," said his host. "Where did you learn?" "Oh, we all have our ups and downs," replied the dummy-chucker. "But don't get nervous. I ain't goin' to tell you that I was a millionaire's son, educated at Harvard.
Half a block north, laughing groups testified that the comedy they had just left had been as funny as its press-agent claimed. The dummy-chucker shook his head. He moved south, his feet taking on that shuffle which they had lost temporarily. "She Loved and Lost" that was the name of the picture being run this week at the Concorde.
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