"I didn't come down here to sleep my head off, did I?
Shall I take my drum ?" Jimmie sat down on the ground and chuckled.
"You an' your drum!" he exclaimed, being careful to speak in a tone which would not reach the ears of the guards.
"That is a fine drum," urged Peter, the drummer.
"What do you want to lug it around for, then ?" demanded Jimmie.

"They won't let you beat on it." "That's what I came down here for--to drum," was the impatient reply.
"Think I came down here to get my hair cut ?" "You may get it cut off under your chin before you get back to the Great White Way," Jimmie said.

"This is no joke." "I haven't had a chance to drum since I got here," complained the boy.
"The time you heard me is the only one.

That's rotten!" "Why did they let you drum then ?" asked Jimmie.
"I just rolled it out before they could stop me." "I was wondering," Jimmie said, with a sly smile, "if these secret service men went sleuthing with a brass band ahead of them." "Indeed they don't!" declared the drummer, in defense of his friends.
"They found me broke and lost and picked me up, which was mighty good of them.

Say," he added, with a slight scowl on his face, "this is a fine, large country to get lost in." "I should think so," agreed Jimmie.