"There's nothing better in New York, Tom. An' that Cookie — she's a queen, for all she sings songs that'd make your own father blush."
"She is, is she?"
"Shure she is, an' I'll fight any man that says she isn't. Haven't ye heard her before?"
"Naow. Will she be 'ere ternight?"
"Indeed she will. Any minute now. That's what I come in for. If it wasn't for her, I'd rather have a drink that'll stay with me 'an a girl I can have to meself to roll in the hay. But Cookie can take care of that too, if she's a friend of yours."
He winked broadly, a happy pagan with a girl and a hangover in every port.
"Coo," said the Saint, properly impressed. "And are yer a friend of 'ers?"
"You bet I am. Why, last Saturday she takes me an' a friend o' mine out to that fine club she has, an' gives us all the drinks we can hold; an' there we are livin' like lords until daybreak, an' she says any time we want to go back we can do the same. An' if you're a friend o' mine, Tom, why, she'll do the same for you."
"Lumme," said the Saint hungrily. "Jer fink she would?"
"Indeed she will. Though I'm surprised at an old man like you havin' these ideas."