CHUCK AND SLATS IN SOCIETY
I wuz uptown wunce w'en I had de time uv me life. Dere's a good many uv de mob around de Reservation wot ain't never been uptown. Dey never travelled an' don't know nuttin'. Yer kin rend t'ings out uv books an' papers but you've got ter see 'em if yer want ter git next rite.
Dat's de only way.
Well, dis is de way dis trip happened.
A bloke wot lives uptown an' knows all erbout it an' who's er kind uv er pal uv mine on account uv me knowin' him so long cum down wun nite an' tips me off dat he wants ter take me an' me gal up to er swell dump w'ere dere's er racket. I wuz afraid dat I would have ter dig up wun uv dose funny suits uv clothes wid er white shirt, but he said nixey, dat it wuz all rite ter go just as I wuz. So I hussies around and digs up Slats—me bundle, yer know—an' off we start.
“Cum on,” sez de swell bloke, “let's take er car.”
“No,” sez I, “let's do de Dan O'Leary—walk, yer know—an' blow in de car far fer er cupple uv mugs uv ale.”
It wuz like goin' ter China fer Slats, fer she always stuck to de block, an' by de time we got ter Fourteenth street she wuz hancin' on ter me right wing like.