"Oh, I'm wise to these guys with the Gorgonzola titles all wrapped up in pink tissue paper and only $8 in the jeans," Hep rumbled, with a glare in the direction of the Count Cheese von Cheese.
"Pop Goober certainly does make both ends meet in the lemon industry," he continued. "That old gink is the original Onion collector and he spends his waking hours falling for dead ones."
Hep paused to bite the froth off a Bronx. His goat was at the post.
"That driblet is over here to pick out an heiress and fall in love with her because he needs the money," Hep growled as his goat got away in the lead. "Every steamer brings them over, John, some incognito, some in dress suits, and some in hoc signo vinces, but all of them able to pick out a lady with a bank account as far as the naked eye can see.
"It's getting so now, John, that an open-face, stem-winding American has to kick four Dukes, eight Earls, seven Counts and a couple of Princes off the front steps every time he goes to call on his sweetheart—if she has money.
"When I go down into Wall Street, John, I find rich men with the tears streaming down their faces while they are calling up on the telephone to see if their daughter, Gladys, is still safe at home, where they left her before they came down to business.
"Walk through a peachy palace of the rich on Fifth Avenue, and what will you find?
"Answer: You will find a proud mother bowed with a great grief, and holding onto a rope which is tied to her daughter's ankle to prevent the latter from running out on the front piazza, and throwing kisses at the titled foreigners.
"You will find these cheap skates everywhere, John, rushing hither and thither, and sniffing the air for the odor of burning money."
Hep's goat at the quarter and going strong.