“An' be yez goin' to let him get away wit' it?” demanded the Wop.
“W'at can we do?” asked the Grabber, disconsolately.
“It's that big blonde,” declared Jew Yetta' with acrimony. “She's goin' through Louie for every dollar. I wonder Mollie Squint an' Pretty Agnes don't put her on th' fritz.”
The Hesper Club was in Second Avenue between Sixth and Seventh Streets. It was one o'clock in the morning when Indian Louie took his accustomed seat at the big table in the corner.
“How's everybody?” he asked, easily. “I oversleeps meself, or I'd been here hours ago.”
“W'at tires you?” asked Candy Phil. Not that he cared, but merely by way of conversation.
“It's th' big feed last night at Terrace Garden. I'm two days trainin' for it, an' all day gettin' over it. Them swell blowouts is something fierce!” and Louie assumed a wan and weary air, intended to be superior.
“So you was at Terrace Garden?” said Nigger Ruhl.
“Was I? Youse should have seen me! Patent leathers, white choker, and a diamond in th' middle of me three-sheet big enough to trip a dog.”
“There's nothin' in them dress suits,” protested Maxie Hahn. “I'm ag'inst 'em; they ain't dimmycratic.”