“All th' same, youse've got to wear 'em at these swell feeds,” said Candy Phil. “They'd give youse th' gate if you don't. An' as for not bein' dimmycratic”—Candy Phil had his jocose side—“they make it so you can't tell th' high-guys from th' waiters, an' if that ain't dimmycratic what is? Th' only thing I know ag'inst 'em is that youse can't go to th' floor wit' a guy in 'em. You've got to cut out th' scrappin', an' live up to the suit, see?” The Grabber strolled in, careless and smiling. Louie fastened him with eyes of dark suspicion, while Maxie Hahn, the' Lobster Kid and Candy Phil began pushing their chairs out of the line of possible fire. For they knew of those monetary differences.
“Not a chance, sports,” remarked the Grabber, reassuringly. “No one's goin' to start anything. Let's take a drink,” and the Grabber beat upon the table as a sign of thirst. “I ain't after no one here.”
“Be youse alludin' to me, Grabber?” asked Louie, with a frown like a great cloud. “I don't like them cracks about startin' somethin'.”
“Keep your shoit on,” expostulated the Grabber, clinking down the change for the round of beers; “keep your shoit on, Louie. I ain't alludin' at nobody nor nothin', least of all at youse. Besides, I just gets a message for you—only you don't seem in no humor to receive it.”
“Who's it from?” asked Louie.
“It's Laura”—Laura was the opulent blonde—“Mollie Squint an' Pretty Agnes runs up on her about an hour ago at Twelfth Street an' Second Avenoo, an' Mollie bounces a brick off her coco. A copper comes along an' chases Mollie an' Pretty Agnes. I gets there as they're carry in' Laura into that Dago's joint be th' corner. Laura asks me if I sees youse to tell w'at's happened her; that's all.”
“Was Mollie and Agnes sloughed in?” asked Louie, whose practical mind went first to his breadwinners.
“No, they faded into th' next street. Th' cop don't want to pinch 'em anyway.”
“About Laura; was she hoited much?”
“Ten stiches, an' a week in Roosevelt Hospital; that's the best she can get.”