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"What are you aimin' to do, Pete? Let 'em alone. Let 'em go to it. They got to have it out. Stop 'em now and they'll get at it with guns." Sheba ran up, wringing her hands. "Stop them, please. They're killing each other." "Nothing of the kind, girl. You let 'em alone, Pete. The kid's there every minute, ain't he? Gee, that's a good one, boy. Seven eleven ninety-two. 'Attaboy!"
"Some bean ye got, Cap," congratulated Tim, vastly relieved at sight of McKay's gray stare. "Bullet bounced right off. Here, take another swaller. Attaboy! Hey, Looey, we better pack this crease o' Cap's, huh? She keeps leakin'." "Yep. Dip up the surgical kit. And give José a drink. I'll have to tie his artery, too. How do you feel, old chap?" "Dizzy," McKay confessed. "What's happened?"
"Chaperoning Miss Brooke's investigations into the seamy side of current social history? That will be delightful." "Attaboy! If I'm not back in half an hour you'll see her safely home, of course?" "Trust me." "And you'll excuse me, Miss Brooke? I hope you don't think " "What I do think, Mr. Crane, is that you have been most kind to a lonely stranger.
Sits you as surely as an Arizona cowboy, and must have wrists like steel although she's got hands like a baby. Attaboy! ... Yep, she'll give you your head now, but I'll gamble she'll bring you back quiet as Mary's little lamb." He was right.
Redly and somewhat painfully, the observed of all observers, Miss Schump tilted her head and drank, manfully and shudderingly, to the bitter end of the glass. "Attaboy! Say, tell it to the poodles and the great Danes! That Jane's no amachure!" Eyes stung to tears, pink tip of her tongue quickly circling her lips, Miss Schump held out to Mr. Kinealy the empty tumbler. "Now, there!" "More?"
"'Attaboy, Gord 'attaboy nine, eleven, seventeen. Hit 'er low, you Elliot." When at last he went down to stay it was in an exhaustion so complete that not even his indomitable will could lash him to his feet again. For an hour he lay in a stupor, never stirring even to fight the swarm of mosquitoes that buzzed about him. Toward evening he sat up and undid the pack from his back.
Besides, fellow ought to support the home team." He did go and support the team, and enhance the glory of Zenith, by yelling "Attaboy!" and "Rotten!" He performed the rite scrupulously. He wore a cotton handkerchief about his collar; he became sweaty; he opened his mouth in a wide loose grin; and drank lemon soda out of a bottle. He went to the Game three times a week, for one week.
I've been thinking out a plan for getting to the bottom of this law-breaking booze business that we've got a line on, but I need another man to work it out right, and you're elected." "Attaboy!" cried McCorquodale enthusiastically. "We can't get busy on it till Mr. Wade gets back from Montreal in a few days.
You run down to the corner grocery and get some tea and a little cream. Oh, you better buy three-four cups, too. Hustle now, son!" "Attaboy! Yours to command, ladies and gents, like the fellow says!" Bill boomed delightedly. He winked at Jeff Saxton, airily spun his broken hat on his dirty forefinger, and sauntered out. "Charming fellow. A real original," crooned Mrs. Gilson.
But we sit in the warm cabaret, devilishly proud of ourselves. We're a part of the gang that stays awake when the stars are out. And the elfin-faced one cuts loose. Attaboy, girlie! Legs shooting through the tobacco smoke. Eyes like drunken birds. A banjo body playing jazz capers on the air. It ain't art. But who the devil wants art? What we want are conniption fits.
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