“Aw go long wud yer.... Let’s have some liverwurst.... My that cold breast of turkey looks good....”
“Piggywiggy,” cooed the yellowhaired girl.
“Lay off me will ye, I’m doing this.”
“Yes sir ze breast of turkee is veree goud.... We ave ole cheekens too, steel ’ot.... Emile mong ami cherchez moi uns de ces petits poulets dans la cuisin-e.” Madame Rigaud spoke like an oracle without moving from her stool
by the cashdesk. The man was fanning himself with a thickbrimmed straw hat that had a checked band.
“Varm tonight,” said Madame Rigaud.
“It sure is.... Norah we ought to have gone down to the Island instead of bummin round this town.”
“Billy you know why we couldn’t go perfectly well.”
“Don’t rub it in. Aint I tellin ye it’ll be all jake by Saturday.”
“History and literature,” continued Emile when the customers had gone off with the chicken, leaving Madame Rigaud a silver half dollar to lock up in the till ... “history and literature teach us that there are friendships, that there sometimes comes love that is worthy of confidence....”