“Sure!” said the Bowery boy, doggedly, safely started now on his favourite subject. “I knows, and youse knows, boss. Gee! I wish I’d bin a cop. But I wasn’t tall enough. Dey’s de fellers wit de big bank-rolls! Look at dis old McEachern. Money to boin a wet dog wit he’s got, and never a bit of woik for it from de start to de finish. An’ look at me, boss.”
“I do, Spike; I do.”
“Look at me. Getting busy all de year round, woiking to beat de band——”
“In prisons oft,” said Jimmy.
“Sure t’ing. And chased all roun’ de town. And den what? Why, to de bad at de end of it all. Say, it’s enough to make a feller——”
“Turn honest!” said Jimmy. “That’s it, Spike—reform. You’ll be glad some day.”
Spike seemed to be doubtful. He was silent for a moment; then, as if following up a train of thought, he said:
“Boss, dis is a fine big house.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“Say, couldn’t we——?”