“Cum on, Sis, dere's er bloke over here wot wants yer ter give him er
twist.”
“Tell de bloke ter send over his card,” she sez. “Mebbe I don't know
him.”
“His wot?” sez I.
“His card,” sez she. “Yer ain't no boiler-maker. Yer heard wot I sed.”
Ain't it funny de way tarts will fall fer er new graft. Slats wuz rite
in line, an' wuz actin' just like doze swell bundles wot give er guy de
frozen face w'en dey don't like de way he combs his hair. Take it frum
me, cull, it takes er woman ter git next quick. Put 'em enny-where's,
an' yer'd t'ink dey'd lived dere all dere lives.
De old bloke pulled out er pair uv gig-lamps an' put 'em on, an' den he
give me er grate sizin' up. Den he turned ter Slats, an' sez:
“Who's yer friend?”
Well, dat got me goin', an' I sez: “Me? Why, I'm Chuck Connors, de Mayor
uv Chinatown, an' how do yer feel after de shock?”
He wuz goin' ter say sumthin, but I cut him off, an' I told Slats she
had ter cum out on de floor an' give me er twist.
“Not on yer tut tut,” she sez. “Yer out uv it.”
“Are ye sore on me because dis mug yer wid hez got er super an' is all
dressed up like er flat on de instalment plan?”
“Shove off frum me an' me company,” sez she.
I give her er look, an' bein' strange ter de place, I didn't know wot
ter do, so I t'inks de safest t'ing is de best, an' I screws me nut fer
de Reservation, leavin' Her Nobs wid old boy Whiskers.
I hit de feathers somew'ere's about 2 o'clock, an' de next mornin' er
cupple uv de mob cum up ter tell me dat Slats wuz pinched fer sluggin'
two Chinks an' stoppin' er trolley car on de Bowery, an' fer givin' de
cop er fight w'en he tried ter take her in.
Dere wuz only wun t'ing fer me ter do, so I takes er walk over ter de
Tombs, an' dere I seen her wid er bunch uv de talent in de pen. She
looked kind uv rockey. I went over and sez: “Wot's de matter wid yer?”
“Nuttin,” sez she. “Pay me fine an' don't leave me here wid dis bunch.”
“Pay nuttin,” sez I. “I ought ter give yer a wallop in de kisser.
I guess yer fergit last nite, don't yer? Yer ought ter git er good
thumpin'.”
“I wouldn't kick if I did,” she sez. “But say, Chuck, yer wouldn't hev
de heart ter leave me here, would yer, wid dis bunch uv bums?”
Just den wun uv de bundles wot wuz sloughed up dere--wid er peach uv er
black eye an' er t'ree-months thirst--butted in wid: “Excuse me, Miss,
are yer referin' ter me? Fer if yer are, I want yer ter understand dat
I'm none uv yer cheap Chinatown tarts, I ain't.”
“Mebbe yer ain't,” sez Slats, “but yer kin drink all de bum roof paint
dey got in Chinatown, an' yer needn't put on enny lugs in dis joint.”
It made me feel kid uv good ter hear Slats hand it back like dat, so I
sez: “Cut it out, Sis, an' lissen ter er wise crack. Will yer be nice if
I pay yer fine?”
“Will I?” she sez. “Just you put up de dough, an' den watch me do de
minuet out uv dat door.” So I went ter de bloke behind de desk, an' sez:
“Say, have yer got Slat's name in yer album?”
“Nothin' doin',” sez he.
“Well, hev yer got Kitty McClinchy dere?”
“Sure,” he sez. “Ten dollars.”
So I digs down in me kick an' cums up wid er ten spot.
“De best uv friends must part,” sez I, ez I let go uv it, “an' it don't
grow in er mug's pocket like grass in de country. Cum on Slats,” I
hollered, an' we heads fer Chinatown. “Uptown may be all rite, but it
costs coin ter git wid dat swell push. Are yer goin' ter be good, now?”
She didn't say nuttin' but chucked her arms around me neck, an' dat wuz
wort' $10 enny day.
Dat nite we buried de hatchet in four cans ov Barney's Best.
[Illustration: 0045]