“Of course,” said Big Kitty, who while speaking little spoke always to the point, “youse souses understands that them dolls who shakes up Coney has an ace buried. They're simply a brace of roof-gardeners framin' up a little ink. I s'pose they fig-gered they'd make a hit. Did they?”—this was in reply to Mollie Squint, who had asked the question. “Well, if becomin' th' reason why th' bull on post rings in a riot call, an' brings out th' resoives, is your idee of a hit, Mollie, them dames is certainly th' big scream.”
“Them harem skirts won't do!” observed the Nailer, firmly; “youse hear me, they won't do!”
“An' that goes f'r merry widdy hats, too,” called out the Wop, from across the room. “Only yister-day a big fat baby rounds a corner on me, an' bang! she ketches me in th' lamp wit' th' edge av her merry widdy. On the livil, I thought it was a cross-cut saw! She came near bloindin' me f'r loife. As I side-steps, a rooshter's tail that's sproutin' out av th' roof, puts me other optic on th' blink. I couldn't have seen a shell av beer, even if Jimmy here was payin' fer it. Harem skirts is bad; but th' real minace is merry widdys.”
“I thought them lids was called in,” remarked Slimmy.
“If they was,” returned the Wop, “they got bailed out ag'in. Th' one I'm nailed wit' is half as big as Betmont Pa-a-ark. Youse could 've raced a field av two-year olds on it.”
“Well,” remarked the Nailer, resignedly, “it's th' fashion, an' it's up to us, I s'pose, to stand it. That or get off the earth.”
“Who invints th' fashions?” and here the Wop appealed to the deep experience of old Jimmy.
“Th' French.”
Old Jimmy—his pension had just been paid—motioned to the waiter to again take the orders all 'round.
“Th' French. They're the laddy-bucks that shoves 'em from shore. Say 'Fashion!' an' bing! th' French is on th' job, givin' orders.”