“I focuses me peeps on this Fleury, all pink tights an' silks an' feathers, where she's doin' her toin. I'm a lobster if she ain't Bridgy McGuire!
“'What th' 'ell! what th' bloomin' 'ell!' is all I can say; an' on d' square! Mac has to drag me out an' lay an oyster on me before I'm meself ag'in. It comes mighty near stoppin' me in d' foist round.
“You sees d' finish. Bridgy's took to d' stoige. She's been over in London an' Paris; an' say! she's got d' game down fine as silk. She'd come back an' was beatin 'd' box for t'ree hundred plunks a week.
“Sure! Bridgy had been up to find her folks. Foist she said she t'ought she'd pass 'em up. Dey had given her d' woist of it when she's a kid; why should she bother! But she tells us herself, talkin' it over, how when she struck d' old town ag'in, an' old sights begins to toin up old mem'ries, it starts to run in her wig about d' Bend an 'd' old days. An' what stan's out clearest is d' little old Cat'lic choich, an 'd' guff dey gives her d' onct or twict she shows up there, about honourin' her father an' mother. I s'pose what youse would call Bridgy's conscience gets a run for its money. Anyhow, somet'ing inside of her took to chewin' d' rag, an' showin' Bridgy's she's wrong, an' at d' last, she can't stand for it no longer, an' so she sends a tracer out for her mother an' dad, an' lands 'em.
“D' McGuires live in Harlem now. Dey drinks better whiskey then dey did in d' Bend, an' less of it. Bridgy is a wonder an' a winner; in it wit' bot' feet an' has dough to back every needful racket. Yes, d' choich does it, give it d' credit; an' youse can gamble your last chip d' McGuires crosses themselfs every time dey sees one. An' dey's dead flossy so to do.”