“A man entirely without money,” said Mason, “is certainly an object for sympathy.”
Larry gestured his contempt.
“I’d like to deal in that,” said he. “If I could sell it at two bits a crate I’d make money till youse couldn’t rest. The lobsters what runs the beanery’s got sympathy to give away; but youse couldn’t coax a beef stew out o’ the kitchen if ye had a smile like Maude Adams. And the gent that runs the hock shop keeps it in stock too, but the same guy wouldn’t lend youse a half a plunk on a pair o’ bags wit’ a hole in ’em if ye was spittin’ blood.
“Sympathy,” continued the square-jawed young man, “is the cheapest graft that ever looked over the hill; it’s got every other con game skinned to death and a guy in a tight pull takes chances o’ breakin’ his neck over it every time he opens his mouth. But, say, on the level, when a man’s single, an’ on’y got one end to watch he kin pipe up a breeze if he ain’t dead leary on action; but when he’s got a full hand o’ kids like me friend Chip Nolan, an’ has to keep leather on their tootseys an’ their first teeth busy three times a day, he’s got to keep his t’ink-tank stirrin’ to beat the band, or he’ll look like a last year’s poster on a broken-down fence.”
He climbed up to his high seat and gathered up the reins.
“Don’t t’ink from this song an’ dance,” said he, “that I’ve ever stood in line wit’ a yellow ticket an’ a tin can. But, say, as Chip Nolan ’ed say: ‘Yer on the turf, mate, but youse ain’t under it yet.’ See? Git ’ep, Pete!”
Chapter II
“Ding, dong, ding-el, ding-el, dong,
Listen to the echo in the dell,
Hurry, little children, Sunday morn,