This deep declaration emanated from old Jimmy. Old Jimmy's home was a rear room on Second Street near the Bowery, which overlooked a graveyard hidden in the heart of the block. There, when not restoring himself at Tony's or Sirocco's or Lyon's, old Jimmy smoked a vile tobacco known as Sailors' Choice, in a vile clay pipe as black as sin, and meditated. Having nothing to do but think, he evolved in time into a philosopher, and it became his habit to unload chunks of wisdom on whomsoever seemed to stand in need. Also, since he was warlike and carried a knife, and because anyone in hard luck could touch him for a dollar, he was listened to politely in what society he favored with his countenance.
“Money ain't th' whole box of tricks,” old Jimmy repeated, severely, wagging a grizzled head at the Wop, “an' only you're Irish an' ignorant you wouldn't have to be told so.”
“Jimmy, you're nutty,” returned the Wop. “Never mind me bein' nutty,” retorted old Jimmy, dogmatically. “I know all about th' rich.” Then, in forgetfulness of his pension and the liberal source of it, he continued: “A rich man is so much like a fat hog that he's seldom any good until he's dead.”
Old Jimmy called for beer; wisdom is always dry. “Say?” observed the Dropper, airily, “do youse guys know that I'm thinkin' I'll just about cop off some dame with millions of dough, an' marry her.”
“Would she have youse?” inquired Mollie Squint, with the flicker of a sneer.
“It's easy money,” returned the Dropper; “all I has to do is put out me sign, see? Them rich frails would fall for me in a hully second.”
“You crooks can't think of a thing but money,” snorted old Jimmy. “Marry a rich dame! A guy might as well get a job as valet or butler or footman somewhere an' let it go at that. Do you mutts know what love is? Th' one married chance of happiness is love. An' to love, folks must be poor. Then they have to depend upon each other; and it's only when people depend upon each other they love each other.”
“Jimmy,” quoth the Dropper, with mock sadness. “I can see your finish. You'll land in Bloomingdale, playin' wit' a string of spools.”
“Did you ever,” demanded old Jimmy, disregarding the irreverent Dropper, “see some strapping young party, up against the skyline on an iron building, workin' away wit' one of them rivetin' guns? Well, somewhere between th' two rivers there's a girl he's married to, who's doin' a two-step 'round a cook stove, fryin' steak an' onions for him, an' keepin' an eye out that their kids don't do a high dive off th' fire-escape. Them two people are th' happiest in th' world. Such boneheads as you can't appreciate it, but they are. Give 'em a million dollars an' you'll spoil it. They'd get a divorce; you'd put that household on th' toboggan. If this Mister Vee, now, had been poor an' drove a truck instead of bein' rich an' drivin' a 6-horse coach, an' if Mrs. Vee had been poor an' done a catch-as-catch-can with th' family washtub instead of havin' money to burn an' hirein' a laundress, she'd never have bucked th' divorce game, but lived happy ever after.”
“But, Jimmy,” interposed Tony, “I've seen poor folks scrap.”