“That an' th' way Morgan an' th' balance of that fur-lined push fall over themselves. Th' big thing they're shy on is diplomacy. When it comes to diplomacy, they're a lot of dead ones.”
“An' phwat's diplom'cy?”
The Wop didn't like big words; his feeling was to first question, then resent them.
“Phwat's diplom'cy?” he repeated.
“Diplomacy,” said old Jimmy, “is any cunnin' move that lands th' trick. You wake up an' hear a noise; an' you think it's some porch-climber, like th' Nailer here, turnin' off th' joint. At that, not knowin' but he's framed up with a gun, you don't feel like goin' to th' mat with him. What do you do? Well, you use diplomacy. You tosses mebby a dumbbell over th' bannisters, an' lets it go bumpin' along from step to step, makin' more row than some geezer failin' down stairs with a kitchen stove. Th' racket throws a scare into th' Nailer, an' he beats it, see?”
“An' that's diplom'cy!” said the Wop.
“Also, it's exactly what them Wall Streeters ain't got. Look at th' way they're always fightin' Roosevelt. For twenty-five years they've been roustin' Teddy; an' for twenty-five years they've done nothin' but keep him on th' map. When Teddy was in Mulberry Street th' Tammany ducks gets along with him as peaceful as a basketful of pups. Diplomacy does it; that, an' payin' strict attention to Teddy's blind side. 'What's th' use of kickin' in th' gate,' says they, 'when we knows where a picket's off th' fence?' You remember Big Florrie Sullivan puttin' young Brady on th' Force? Teddy's in Mulberry Street then. Do you think Big Florrie goes queerin' th' chances, be tellin' Teddy how Brady passes th' cush box in Father Curry's church? Not on your life! It wouldn't have been diplomacy; Teddy wouldn't have paid no attention. Big Florrie gets in his work like this:
“'Say, Commish,' he says, 'I sees th' fight of my life last night. Nineteen rounds to a knockout! It's a left hook to th' jaw does it.'
“'No!' Teddy says, lightin' up like Chinatown on th' night of a Chink festival; 'you int'rest me! Pull up a stool,' says he, 'an' put your feet on th' desk. There; now you're comfortable, go on about th' fight. Who were they?'
“'A lad from my district named Brady,' says Big Florry, 'an' a dock-walloper from Williamsburg. You ought to have seen it, Commish! Oh, Brady's th' goods! Pie's th' lad to go th' route! He's all over that Williamsburg duffer like a cat over a shed roof! He went 'round him like a cooper 'round a barrel!'