“Ou la la!” she exclaimed. “You want to keel me?”
Ben was getting uneasy. In an aside to me he said something about a horse collar and then returned to the attack with a forceful “Ferget it! Don’t make me burst into hysterics laughin’. What’s the dope? How about it?”
“O non, non, non,” she told him sweetly. “C’est impossible! Such a beeg strong man! Ou la la ... non, non!... But your frien’, is he int’rest?”
“Naw, he don’t like women—he’s a cherry tree,” says my sidekicker deprecatingly.
“Nevaire wis a woman? Nevaire?... Ou la la!” She stared at me as if I were some kind of a strange animal that she had heard stories about but had never seen. “Oh—I sink he ees grand.... I like heem trés bon.”
“He won’t go,” declared Ben, beginning to get insulted. “Ferget it now! Don’t be annoyin’ my friend. What about me?”
“Nevaire ... nevaire ...” she told him. “But I have zis frien’ ... she will like you.”
“Where is she?” demanded Ben. “Is she as good lookin’ as you?”
“Yes ... trés chic.... But your frien’?”
“Whatta ya say, Leony? This looks pretty good to me.”