Say, on de level, I t'ought dere wuz goin' ter er riot, an' I wuz t'inkin' I'd hev ter fite me way ter der door, w'en de old t'rush got w'ite around de gills. I t'ought he wuz goin' ter drop dead w'ere he sat, but he hopped ter his pins like er cricket, an' made er lam fer de frunt door.
I could hear de bell ringin' ter de last round, an' I made er quick finish uv de stuff on de plates, collared de check an' waltzes up ter Miss Handsome, wid er pompydor ez big ez er sofa piller, sittin' on de high stool.
“Here's yer two bits,” sez I, layin' down me coin wid er pain in me heart, fer it wuz like chuckin' it erway.
“T'anks,” sez she, ez she nailed it wid her t'umb an' first finger.
“No t'anks erbout it,” sez I, “but I want ter put yer wise ter sumthin'. Do yer know wot I'm goin' ter do now?”
“No,” sez she.
“Well, I'm goin' out ter er joint w'ere dey has real grub, an' git sumthin' proper to eat. See?”
“Is it ez bad ez dat?” sez she, wid er smile dat would take de buttons off yer vest.
“Worse,” sez I. “So long.”