I don’t know about you, but when I’m feeling tired, and I have the option between drinking eight ounces of carbonated sugar-water and sticking my head out the window of a roaring locomotive, I go with the latter. The brisk bracing flow of air, the thunder of the engine, the metrical clank of the wheels, the ear-lancing shriek of the siren – they wake me up quite well. But I suppose you get used to those things.

Probably a Sundblom illustration; he was fond of the ruddy cheek. Rather flamboyant kerchief, no? Can’t blame him; the overalls are so beastly drab a fellow needs to accessorize.

He doesn’t seem to be drinking, though. I’ll put this vile fluid up to my lips, but not a jot shall pass. What’s that? You want me to pose holding a watch? Why? I’m not looking at it. Are we to assume that I took off my glove, took out my watch, held it in my palm, then placed a bottle to my lips while staring at the unseen observer?  What the devil is the sense in that? I shall look like I'm being forced by a train-robber to perform some humiliating posture.