Jimmy Woodser

“What did you follow him below that time for, Mitchell?” I asked presently, for want of something better to say.

Mitchell looked at me out of the corners of his eyes.

“I wanted to score a drink!” he said. “I thought he wanted one and wouldn′t like to be a Jimmy Woodser.”

THERE WAS a man in a pub — a long, dark, scowling, string-bellied sort of joker drinking Jimmy Woodsers of rum and water — and his message, suitably censored, was this: he didn′t much care what beer-brokers did to, or with, their frightful brewery broth.