"Down goes!" and he emptied the glass at a draft. Then he
walked to the group at the stove, and began dipping a drink for each.
When Jimmy came to a gray-haired man, with a high forehead and an
intellectual face, he whispered: "Take your full time, Cap. Who's
the rhymin' inkybator?"
"Thread man, Boston," mouthed the Captain, as he reached for the
glass with trembling fingers. Jimmy held on. "Do you know that
stuff he's giving off?" The Captain nodded, and rose to his feet.
He always declared he could feel it farther if he drank standing.
"What's his name?" whispered Jimmy, releasing the glass. "Rubaiyat,
Omar Khayyam," panted the Captain, and was lost. Jimmy finished
the round of his friends, and then approached the bar.
His voice was softening. "Mister Ruben O'Khayam," he said, "it's me
private opinion that ye nade lace-trimmed pantalettes and a sash to
complate your costume, but barrin' clothes, I'm entangled in the
thrid of your discourse. Bein' a Boston man meself, it appeals to
me, that I detict the refinemint of the East in yer voice. Now
these, me frinds, that I've just been tratin', are men of these
parts; but we of the middle East don't set up to equal the culture
of the extreme East. So, Mr. O'Khayam, solely for the benefit you
might be to us, I'm askin' you to join me and me frinds in the
momenchous initiation of me new milk pail."
Jimmy lifted a brimming glass, and offered it to the Thread Man.
"Do you transmute?" he asked.
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