“Cum on, Sis, dere's er bloke over here wot wants yer ter give him er twist.”
“Tell de bloke ter send over his card,” she sez. “Mebbe I don't know him.”
“His wot?” sez I.
“His card,” sez she. “Yer ain't no boiler-maker. Yer heard wot I sed.”
Ain't it funny de way tarts will fall fer er new graft. Slats wuz rite in line, an' wuz actin' just like doze swell bundles wot give er guy de frozen face w'en dey don't like de way he combs his hair. Take it frum me, cull, it takes er woman ter git next quick. Put 'em enny-where's, an' yer'd t'ink dey'd lived dere all dere lives.
De old bloke pulled out er pair uv gig-lamps an' put 'em on, an' den he give me er grate sizin' up. Den he turned ter Slats, an' sez:
“Who's yer friend?”
Well, dat got me goin', an' I sez: “Me? Why, I'm Chuck Connors, de Mayor uv Chinatown, an' how do yer feel after de shock?”
He wuz goin' ter say sumthin, but I cut him off, an' I told Slats she had ter cum out on de floor an' give me er twist.
“Not on yer tut tut,” she sez. “Yer out uv it.”