I thought if anybody could work Becky, it would be me, an’ I expected the gal’s nyme might come in ’andy, though I ’ad no idea then how strong it would pull. So I goes up to the big woman after she was dressed, and tykes ’er up to the “Poodle Dog” for supper. She ’ad gort over the worry by this time, an’ was feelink as chipper as a brig in a west wind.
“Did ever yer ’ear tell of a Bertha Wolfstein?” I says, off-hand.
Then wot does she do but begins to bryke darn an’ blubber. “She was the on’y one in tarn as come to see me after I was pulled,” she says. “I done all kinds o’ fyvors for lots of ’em, but Miss Wolfstein was the on’y one who ’ad called me friend, as ever remembered it. She was a lydy, was Miss Wolfstein; she treated me angel w’ite, she did, Gawd bless ’er pretty fyce!”
Then I knowed I ’ad ’er w’ere I wanted ’er, ’an I give it to ’er tender an’ soft, with all the sugar an’ cream she could stand. I let art Ikey Behn’s story, hinch by hinch, an’ I pynted the feelinks o’ thet Bertha Wolfstein with all the tack I knew how, till I gort Becky on the run an’ she boohooed again, right art loud, an’ I see I ’ad win ’er over. My word! she did look a sight for spectytors after she’d wiped a ’arf parnd o’ pynte off’n ’er fyce with ’er napkin, sobbink awye, like ’er ’eart was as soft as a slug in a mud-puddle. She parssed over the pyper art of ’er purse an’ she says, “Yer can give it to Ikey an’ get the money. I don’t want to ’urt a ’air o’ thet gal’s ’ead.”
Seein’ she was so easy worked, I thought it was on’y right I should be pyde for me trouble, for it ’ad stood me somethink for a private room an’ drinks an’ such to get her into proper condition.
So I says, “Thet’s all right, Becky, an’ it’s jolly ’andsome o’ yer to be willin’ to let go of the docky-ment, but I’ll be blowed if I see ’ow yer can tyke ’is money, w’en yer feel that wye. If yer sell art the pyper, w’ere does the bloomin’ gratitude to the gal come in, anywye?”
At this, Becky looked all wyes for a Sunday, an’ I perceeded to rub it in. “Nar, see here, Becky, w’ich would yer rather do—get five ’undred dollars for the license from Ikey, or let Miss Wolfstein know yer’d made a present of it to ’er, for wot she done to yer?”
That was a ’ard conundrum for a woman like that, who ’ad fleeced abart every pal she ever ’ad, an’ the money was a snug bit for anybody who was as ’ard up as she was then. I thought I’d mark the price darn a bit so’s to myke the sacrifice easier for ’er. I didn’t dyre to trust her with a offer of the tharsand Ikey ’ad flashed at me. Besides, I thought I see a charnst to myke a bit meself withart lyin’. Sure enough, I ’ad read the weather in ’er fyce all right, an’ she was gyme to lose five ’underd just to sye “thank you,” as yer might sye. I farncy I’d found abart the only spot in ’er ’eart as wa’n’t rotten.
“I guess I’d rather ’ave ’er know I ain’t quite so bad as they think,” she says, an’ she gulluped an’ rubbed ’er eyes. “You go to Ikey, an’ you tell ’im ’e’s a—” Well, I won’t sye wot she called ’im. “But Bertha Wolfstein is the on’y lydy in tarn, an’ it’s on’y for ’er syke I’m givin’ up the license.”
Then she kerflummuxed again, an’ if yer think I left her time to think it over, yer don’t know old John. I took the pyper before the words was feerly art of ’er marth, an’ in ’arf an’ ’our I was pullin’ Ikey Behn’s door-bell. When ’e seen me, ’e grinned like a cat in a cream-jug, an’ ’e arsked me into the li’bry like I was a rich uncle just ’ome from the di’mond fields.