"All I ask of you," Joey said with a break
in his voice, "is to call him after me, and al-
ways to give him a sausage, sonny, of a Saturday
night."

There was a quiet dignity about Joey at the
end, which showed that he might have risen to
high distinction but for his fatal passion.

The last we saw of him was from the street.
He was waving his tongue at us in his attractive,
foolish way, and Josy was poised on Joeykin's
hand like a butterfly that had alighted on a flower.
We could not exactly see old Joey, but we saw
his feet, and so feared the worst. Of course they
are not everything they should be, but one can't
help liking them.

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