“Of course, no one's makin' much of a roar. There's a good deal doin' about d' Bend, see! An' d' comin' or d' goin' of a skirt more or less don't cut much ice.
“It's in d' winter, an 'd' McGuires has been carryin' on bad. No woik, no money, no grub! On d' dead! it's a forty-to-one shot dey bot' finishes at d' morgue, or d' Island before d' spring comes 'round. For d' winter is bad in d' Bend, an' while everybody is on, that d' McGuires is strikin' it hard, d' most of us is havin' all we can do runnin' down t'ree feeds a day, so d' McGuires ain't what*d' poipers calls 'much in d' public eye,' after all. One evenin', however, Mac comes sprintin' to me, an' he's fair sober for him.
“'Nit!' he says, when I asts him, 'nit; none of d' ellegunt for me!'
“Then I tumbles there's a cochin on. McGuire's t'runnin' off on a drink was a new one on d' Bend.
“'Come wit' me,' he says, 'to Roster & Bial's.'
“'Come wit' youse to Koster's!' I retort. 'That's a dandy idee; youse ought to sew buttons on it! Come to Koster & Bial's! Who's got d' price?'
“'Here's d' pasteboards,' says Mac.
“An' I'm a liar' if he ain't got 'em. So we goes, see!
“D' fift' toin on d' programme is a 'Mamselle Fleury from Paris.' She's down on d' bills as a singer, dancer an' high kicker. I'm leanin' back in me seat feelin' sore on meself for not makin' Mac hock d' tickets for beer, when all at onct Mac gives me a jolt in d' slats wit' his elbow, an' pointin' one of his main hooks at this French tart, where she's singin' on d' stoige—an' say! she's a boid an' a Kokobola—an' says:
“'Be youse on?'