“Tell me about it,” I urged.
“D' racket this time over to d' joint,” said Chucky, “is about a Swede skirt named Petersen who croaks herself be d' gas play last night. D' place is full of cops an' hobos an' all sorts of blokes, pipin' off d' play, while a corner mug is holdin' an inkwest over d' stiff, see! What you smells is d' coal oil on me mits. I soaks me hooks in it to take d' boin away. Me Rag gives me d' tip; an' say! it's a winner at that. D' boins ain't half so bad as dey was.”
“But I don't understand,” I replied. “How did you come to burn your hands? If the gas was burning, I don't see how the woman could have committed suicide.”
“Youse is gettin' away on d' wrong hoof,” said Chucky. “I don't boin me fins over d' Petersen moll croakin' herself. I cremates 'em puttin' out d' flames when d' Petersen kid takes fire d' day before. This inkwest which d' cor'oner guy is holdin' to-day, is d' secont one. He holds d' foist yesterday over d' kid.
“On d' level! I don't catch on to d' need of inkwests anyhow. If a mark's dead, he's dead. It don't need no sawbones an' a mob of snoozers to be 'panelled for a jury, see! to put youse on. It looks to me like a dead case of shakin' down d' public for d' fees; these inkwests do, Cor'ners, I s'spose, has to have some excuse for livin', so when some poor duck croaks, dey comes chasin' 'round wit' a inkwest to see if he's surely done up, an' to put a bit of dough in their kecks. Well! I figgers it's law all right, all right, an' mebby it's d' proper caper. Anyhow, I passes it up.
“What about this Petersen push? Well, if ever a household strikes it hard, I'm here to say it's d' Petersens. When it comes to d' boss hard luck story, I'll place me bets wit' that outfit every time.
“It's two spaces back when this Petersen gang comes ashore at Ellis Island. There's t'ree of 'em; husband, wife, an' kid, see! Dey comes in as steerage, an' naturally, d' Ellis Island gezebos collars 'em an' t'rows 'em into hock d' moment dey hits d' pier. Nit; dey ain't arrested. But youse is on, how dey puts d' clamps to emigrants. Dey 'detains' 'em, as it's called.
“Every mug who comes steerage has to spring his plant when he lands, an' if he ain't as strong as $30, dey—d' offishuls—don't do a t'ing but chase him back on d' nex' boat. He's a pauper, see! an' he gets d' razzle dazzle an 'd' gran' rinky dink. Back he goes where he hails from, like a bundle of old clothes. Paupers is barred at Ellis Island; dey don't go wit' these United States, not on your overshoes!
“So d' Petersens is stood up, like I tells youse, at Ellis Island to see be dey tramps. It toins out, nit. Dey ain't paupers. Petersen has more'n enough money to get be d' gate, see! Petersen has a hundred an' fifty plunks, an' bein' there's only t'ree, it's plenty to go 'round an' show $30 for each.
“Still them Ellis Island snoozers detains d' Petersens a week just d' same. D' place where dey stays is worse'n any holdover or station house I'm ever in; an', bein' d' weather's winter, an' this 'detention' pen is wet an' cold, Petersen himself cops off d' pneumonia an' out goes his light before ever he leaves Ellis Island at all. Dey plants him in d' graveyard dey has for emigrants, an 'd' wife an' kid comes over to d' city alone.