As he stood on the floor of the shop, Dopey said, in a hoarse voice:
“Hello, Sis. Where’s de main squeeze?”
“Where is what?”
“Why, his gazootses; de motza crusher—de man wit’ de birt’mark o’ t’ree balls on his skull-front—de boss, if I must say it.”
“Do you mean my father?”
“I guess so. Where is ’e?”
“He went out to deliver a pair of shoes he has finished and to bring back some to be mended.”
“Why, soy, go find ’im. I got a job fer ’im. Dey’s a couple of swell guys up de street dat needs his ’sisterence. De he guy say dat he’ll stake me ter a dollar. De moll kicked de heel off her Louie Fourteent’ an’ wants it nailed on. Dat dollar means de hop-joint if I get it, an’ to de bat-house if I don’t. Why, soy, dere’s nuttin’ to it.”
“I’ll go and find him,” said Loney, in his childish voice. He somewhat understood this Bowery slang better than Dora.
“Dat’s de trick. Be sure ye does, for if I misses dis I kin see de brassy cop on dis beat pullin’ de hook fer de ambylants, an’ me t’rowin’ a fit in de suds-tub at de croak-joint—de horspittle. Hully gee! mosey, kid. Shake yer skates.”