There was so much ingenuity in the plan that the ward politician declared the bet off and presented "Lamby" with a part of the stake money.
On a Monday, when the feast of Saturday was but a sweet memory and the famine of the week had set in with convincing force, Tom Noseley and his staff of friends—including "Lamby" and Rags, who hugged the shadowy recess of a corner—sat disconsolately in the dingy dimness of Chicory Hall.
"Ain't none of you fellows got any money at all?" queried Jerry Slattery against hope.
The question was too absurd to deserve an answer.
"Well, what are we going to do?" pursued the Limerick Terror; "I'm hungry as blazes and can't stand this any longer. Nothing to eat and nothing to drink; this is worse than being on the bum in the country among the hayseeds. If I don't get something here pretty soon, I'll go out into the Bowery and see if I can't pick up something."
The harangue passed our ears without comment. More deep and dark silence. Then everybody turned to where "Lamby's" preambling cough heralded a monologistic dialogue.
"Rags," began the silent sage of Chicory Hall, "what would you and me do, if we was hungry and wasn't as delicate as we are? Wouldn't you and me go up to Lafayette alley and look them chickens over that don't seem to belong to nobody? Couldn't you and me use them in the shape of one o' them nice chicken stews with plenty of potatoes and onions in it? Ain't it too bad that you and me is too delicate to be chasing round after them chickens and that we aren't allowed to speak so's we could tell other people how to get a meal that'll tickle them to death?"
Bully "Lamby."
In less than five minutes a small, but determined gang of marauders made their stealthy way through Lafayette alley. Every one of the husky pilferers endeavored to shrink his big body into the smallest compass. The alley ended in a hamlet of ramshackle stables in the rear of a famous bathing establishment. The place was deserted in day time as all men and animal occupants were in the streets pursuing the energetic calling of peddling. As said, the place was deserted, save for those chickens. Dating from our first call, the chickens, young and old, began to disappear.
For over a week we feasted on chicken. We had them in all known styles of cooking. Our bill of fare included fried, baked, stewed, broiled and fricasseed chicken. But a day came when naught was left of the flock of chicks excepting one big, black rooster.