I asked the cause of Chucky's exaltation. Chucky's reason as given for his high spirits was unusual.
“Red Mike gets ten spaces in Sing Sing,” he said; “an' he does a dead short stretch at that. He oughter get d' chair—that bloke had.
“Red Mike croaks his kid,” vouchsafed Chucky in further elucidation. “Say! it makes me tired to t'ink! She was as good a kid, this little Emmer which Mike does up, as ever comes down d' Bend. An' only 'leven!”
“Tell me the story,” I urged.
“This Red Mike's a hod carrier,” continued Chucky, thus moved, “but ain't out to hoit himself be hard woik at it; he don't woik overtime. Hit! Not on your life insurance!
“What Red Mike sooner do is bum Mulberry Street for drinks, an' hang 'round s'loons an' sling guff about d' wrongs of d' woikin'man. Then he'd chase home, an' bein' loaded, he'd wallop his family.
“On d' level! I ain't got no use ford' sort of a phylanthrofist who goes chinnin' all night about d' wrongs of d' labour element an 'd' oppressions of d* rich an' then goes home an' slugs his wife. Say! I t'ink a bloke who'd soak a skirt, no matter what she does—no matter if she is his wife! on d' square! I t'ink he's rotten.” And Chucky imbibed deeply, looking virtuous.
“Well, at last,” said Chucky, resuming his narrative, “Mike puts a crimp too many in his Norah—that's his wife—an' d' city 'torities plants her in Potters' Field.”
“Did Mike kill her?” I queried, a bit horrified at this murderous development of Chucky's tale.
“Sure!” assented Chucky, “Mike kills her.”