“Are ye sore on me because dis mug yer wid hez got er super an' is all dressed up like er flat on de instalment plan?”
“Shove off frum me an' me company,” sez she.
I give her er look, an' bein' strange ter de place, I didn't know wot ter do, so I t'inks de safest t'ing is de best, an' I screws me nut fer de Reservation, leavin' Her Nobs wid old boy Whiskers.
I hit de feathers somew'ere's about 2 o'clock, an' de next mornin' er cupple uv de mob cum up ter tell me dat Slats wuz pinched fer sluggin' two Chinks an' stoppin' er trolley car on de Bowery, an' fer givin' de cop er fight w'en he tried ter take her in.
Dere wuz only wun t'ing fer me ter do, so I takes er walk over ter de Tombs, an' dere I seen her wid er bunch uv de talent in de pen. She looked kind uv rockey. I went over and sez: “Wot's de matter wid yer?”
“Nuttin,” sez she. “Pay me fine an' don't leave me here wid dis bunch.”
“Pay nuttin,” sez I. “I ought ter give yer a wallop in de kisser. I guess yer fergit last nite, don't yer? Yer ought ter git er good thumpin'.”
“I wouldn't kick if I did,” she sez. “But say, Chuck, yer wouldn't hev de heart ter leave me here, would yer, wid dis bunch uv bums?”
Just den wun uv de bundles wot wuz sloughed up dere—wid er peach uv er black eye an' er t'ree-months thirst—butted in wid: “Excuse me, Miss, are yer referin' ter me? Fer if yer are, I want yer ter understand dat I'm none uv yer cheap Chinatown tarts, I ain't.”
“Mebbe yer ain't,” sez Slats, “but yer kin drink all de bum roof paint dey got in Chinatown, an' yer needn't put on enny lugs in dis joint.”