“That’s no joke,” agreed McGonagle. “He’s a real good t’ing.”
“It’s a pity,” commented Clancy, “that his mother is so tuck up wid the sup av drink.”
“Ay!” said Tim, shaking his head dismally.
“She hocks everyt’ing she kin carry,” said McGonagle. “Dick can’t trust her wit’ a cent.”
“Small blame till him,” said Clancy; “she’d git drink wid it. He comes in an’ pays me bill every Saturday noight himself, poor b’y.”
“Makes big money, too,” remarked McGonagle; “and she cud live like a lady if she’d cut the bottle. It’s hard lines for Dick, le’me tell youse; for he’s a hard worker, an’ he’s got mighty big notions ’bout gittin’ to the top o’ the heap.”
“That sister o’ his is a nice-lookin’ fairy,” said McGonagle.
“Poody as a bicture,” agreed Schwartz. O’Hara gave a grunt; the barber snatched away his blade and inquired, “Does der razor hurd?”
“Yez damned near cut me chin!” growled the dealer in second-hand goods. “Shut up, an’ tind till yez wurk.”
“She’s a nice girl enough,” said Jerry, “but, say, she’s cert’ny playin’ Roddy Ferguson for a dead one.”