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“Right—now—are you?” The arm that was around Bouncer tightened, and she thought her “heart would fly right up into her throat.” The child had been content to extract but fleeting moments of sweetness from the confection and as the weeks passed had in the time-honored custom kept the canes shining. Thus accumulated quite a bagful of the tempting sweets. These she sold to a haughty plutocrat at school for a dime. This coin of the realm made a pleasing clatter in her wooden box; but she reflected, not without some degree of logic, that ten cents would not go very far in carrying salvation to the suffering heathen in Africa. “Well, he ain’t dead; he’s alive and bully, with a wad that bulges. I’m going to take you to him.”.
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Conrad
“Good dog! I understand you, Bouncer, and I’m not lonesome any more.” Zalhambra was a vaudeville artist. His was the star act on each bill. He was undeniably a genius; it needed but a few bars of fortissimo plus crescendo to realize that he was a virtuoso of the first rank. When he played a Rag the audience shouted with delight; but when he sprinkled torrential cadenzas through the dizzying syncopation, like some mighty giant tossing meteors into a handful of fire-crackers, something like an electric shock stirred his hearers. “Uh huh.” “Rocky?” he interrupted. “You bet not. It’ll be just bully, that’s what!”.
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