They separated, Dolan starting down the garbage-strewn side street to chase a few noisy push-cart merchants who, having no other customers in view, had congregated to barter over their respective wares.
"Beat it, you!" ordered Dolan. "This ain't no Chamber of Commerce. Git!"
With muttered imprecation the peddlers pushed on their carts to make place for a noisy, tuneless hurdy-gurdy. On the pavement at its side a dozen children congregated—none over ten—to dance the turkey trot and the "nigger," according to the most approved Bowery artistry of "spieling."
"Lord, no wonder they fall into the gutter when they grow up," thought Bobbie. "They're sitting in it from the time they get out of their swaddling rags."
Bobbie walked up to the nearby fruit merchant.
"How much is this apple, Tony?"
The Italian looked at him warily, and then smirked.
"Eet's nothing toa you, signor. I'ma da policeman's friend. You taka him."
Bobbie laughed, as he fished out a nickel from his pocket. He shook his head, as he replied.
"No, Tony, I don't get my apples from the 'policeman's friend.' I can pay for them. You know all of us policemen aren't grafters—even on the line of apples and peanuts."