|I wuz tellin' a story to a guy about Chinatown and I says to him:
“Dere wuz t'ree of us when a chaw butts in.” “What's a chaw?” says he.
“Say, don't you know what a chaw is? He's a mug wid a sponge in his
mout' you know; a flannel-mout' bloke. Well, dere wuz t'ree of us when
de chaw came in, 'n he bangs his toot'pick on de bar. Toot'pick? Why,
dat's de iron hook dey use to handle freight and cases. He bangs his
toot'pick on de bar 'n says, 'Line up 'n t'row in.'”
“What's dat? Say, you're a' undertaker.” Dat's 'n invitation on de
Reservation. He says, “Line up 'n t'row in.”
So we line up, de t'ree of us, 'n says mixed ale. De boss, he says he'd
smoke a ham. Aw, say, forget it. I t'ink dey could ring a peter on a mug
as slow as you. Smoke a ham? Why, dat's a torch. Don't you know what a
torch is? Well, up in de Tenderloin dey call it a cigar. Peter? Oh, run
away Chawley, some bloke'll steal you. Peter? Dat's a drink dey call
Mr. Snyder. Say, is you gettin' rats in de nut? Didn't I tell you that a
peter is a Mr. Snyder and a Mr. Snyder is a peter, 'n dat's on de dead.
Why, it's a knockout, see. Say, do ye t'ink ye kin kid me? You don't
know dat a Dago's 'n Italian, 'n a Monk's a Chink. Say, your dead ratty.
A Chink, why dat's a Chinee. Well, as I wuz tellin' yer, de boss says
he'd smoke a herrin'. De mug behind de fence. Aw, say, you give a pain
in de neck.
De mug behind de fence, dat's de barkeep, he twists out four scuttles
an' a torch. Say, on de level, ye got me dead leary. What did we tell de
mug behind the fence we wanted mixed ale for, ha-? Well, den you ought
to know dat a scuttle is a mixed ale, see? De mug behind de fence, he
twists out four an' a torch. De chaw he says:
“What do yer want?”
De mug behind de fence he says: “Toity, toity.”
“What,” says de chaw.
“Toity cents,” says de mug behind de fence.
De chaw he counts.
“Wan, two, t'ree, four 'n a torch is foive. Twenty-foive,” he says.
“Toity, ye chaw,” says de mug behind de fence, reaching fer de
convincer.
“Toity hell,” says de chaw. “Foive foives is twenty-foive.”
De boss he says: “I smoke ten cent torches ye know.”
“Phat?” says de chaw. “Tin cints fur a cigar? De ye t'ink I'm a good
ting?”
De boss, he says: “Well, I wanted a good smoke.”
“Good smoke,” says de chaw, “good smoke, is it ye want?” an' he dives
down into his pocket an' brings out his poipe an' terbaccy an' hands it
at him.
“Here,” he says, “take me poipe. Tin cints fur a cigar.”
[Illustration: 0049]
Well, what do yer t'ink of dat? 'N he wouldn't put up d' toity. What
happened him? Aw, say, forget it. Dere was a collar outside when he
landed. Collar? Say, on d'level, you're stuffed. Collar? Why a collar's
a cop. Well, dere was a collar outside when he landed, 'n I t'ought
he was goin' t' sneeze him. Say, you may be a dead fly mug in de
Tenderloin, but you're a peter here. Sneeze him; what does a cop do when
he nails a mug, but sneeze him. But he didn't. What did he do to him?
Say, forget it. I bet d' chaw ain't sat down since. Say, I thought dey'd
need a rattler to move him. Rattler. You gilly, what do they cart a chaw
off in when a collar gets tru beltin' him, generally? A rattler is a
patrol; dat's what. Well, I thought dey'd need a rattler to take d' chaw
off. D' boss he never turned a hair. He tells us to t'row in wit him, 'n
we t'rowed in, an' he lights d' herrin' d' chaw didn't pay for. Say, d'
boss is d' levelest bloke on de Reservation. Say, he'd stand at a bar 'n
blow his brains out wid yer.
What become of the chaw? Aw, say, what become o' last winter's snow? But
I know about a week after dis big harp goes into a Chinese laundry for
his wash wid anudder harp named Clancy. De Chink dat ust' own de laundry
sold it to another Chink, see. Well, in goes dis big harp. His name was
Dugan. He t'rows down de ticket for de laundry. De Chink wuz ironing,
an' sed:
“No goodie tickie, just now,” and kept on ironing. “Phat's that you
say?”
The Chink after a while said:
“I talk you, tickie no goodie.”
“No good, eh?”
Well you ought to see dem two harps. Dugan looked at Clancy and den at
the Chink and said:
“Say, you funny-eyed devil, if you don't give me phat belongs to
me--that's me overalls and jumper--be the holy smoke, I'll bate your
dirty, yellow puss till there's more wrinkles in it then there's in a
washboard, you dirty washie, washie,” and he makes a grab at de Chink.
But de Chink jumped out of de way, and grabbed a flat-iron to soak him.
Then Clancy, de udder harp, grabbed de Chink be th' neck and soaked him
in de features wit his right, and trowed him down, and de two of dem
started in soakin' him all over de laundry, when another Chink came
out of de back room wit a club. When Dugan seen him he made for him.
De Chink seen the size of Dugan, he dropped de club, and grabbed a fist
full of wet starch out of a pail and soaked Dugan between de lamps wit
it. While Dugan was tryin' to get it out uv his eyes de two Chinks kept
on wallopin' him wit de clubs till poor Dugan had to take it on a jump
tru de door, and left Clancy to be thrown in a wash tub and drowned wit
a half dozen pails of dirty water. Well, say, when Clancy came up out
of de laundry his head and kisser wuz all covered wit blue, and he wuz
leakin' like a bloke dat had water on de brain. And dere wuz Dugan up de
street, tryin' to get de starch out of his lamps wit his fingers. When
Clancy spied Dugan, he walked down to him and grabbed him by de arm.
Dugan looked up, and thinkin' Clancy wuz de Chink, de way he wuz covered
wit blue, wuz just goin' to go at him again, when Clancy yelled: “Hold
on there, Dugan, hold on; it's me, Clancy.”
Dugan looked up at him, still trying to get the starch out of his lamps,
and every now and then saying: “Say, Clancy, how did you come out?”
“Take it from me, them Chinks are bad blokes te monkey wid.”