Then he'd pick me out and say:
“Ho, Chuck, come here. Kin you make 118?”
“I don't know, manager,” I'd say. Den he'd take me over to de scales and make me get on, and I'd shove de ring up to 135.
“You can make it all rite,” he'd say, an' then he'd horse me over to the Sheeney t'ree-cent baths and leave me dere fer twelve hours wit' nuttin' to eat and nuttin' to drink.
Well, I wuz talkin' to one of de blokes dat wuz bringin' in de soap an' water to me an' in comes de manager hollering murder watch. He comes taring over to me in de swet room an' sez:
“Say, wrot's de matter wit' you?”
“Wot's de matter?” I sez.
De manager sez, “Say, how is yuz goin' to get down to weight talkin' all de time?”
Well, to make a long story short, I sez:
“Manager, I got to talk to make meself believe I'm alive, fur on de level I've been livin' on suspission for de last t'ree weeks, an' now your feedin' me on de extract.”