champion playwright's foot slipped when he indicated there was nothing in a cognomen. I don't doubt that soap would furnish as much lather if it was called mush, that Coolidge would still be President if his name was Smith and that the income tax would be just as poisonous if we paid it under the head of outcome tax; but really, when a person is used to their own name for years and then is suddenly called upon to change it, it does affect he, she or its game. Honestly it does!
For today's lesson I offer the case of Hershel Rosenberg, a bellhop in the winter under his honest-to-Boston name, a prizefighter in the summer as "Kid Rose."
When they took away Hershel's name they took away plenty.
One morning during a lull in the daily hostilities, I'm busy doing nothing and just being myself when Jerry Murphy prowls up to the switchboard.
"Well, Cutey, what d'ye know?" he remarks with what he thought was a killing smile.
"Oh, nothing much—two and two's four, that's about all I'm positive of, Jerry!" I says. "What do you suspect?"
"Not a thing, kid," answers Jeremiah. "I ain't even heard no rumors. D'ye want to get a laugh?"
"You've already given me one of your photos," I says sweetly.
