“Bon soir, messieurs,” I replied. I had a liking for addressing chance-met beaux in a foreign tongue. I happened to be the foremost linguist among the university students.
“Bon soir, Jennie, bon soir!”
“Meine sehr geliebten junge Herren, wie geht’s bei Ihnen?” I continued with a twinkle in my eye.
“Ganz gut,” sounded the reply. New York is a Babel. On an hour’s promenade in the Rialto, conversation in a score of languages would impinge on one’s |Female-Impersonators Gifted.| ear. Bright young men brought up in a New York foreign colony acquire a score of the commonest expressions in several languages.
“I miei amici, siete amati da me,” I next declared in a third language.
“Pee-an-gou, savez? We don’t understand Dago, Jennie. Tell us in American how much you love us.”
I reply in Spanish: “Esto es lo mejor que podemos hacer. Hablemos ingles.”
“Bert, Jennie seems to be a bright fellow—or girl—doesn’t she? All these impersonators seem to be brainy. Jennie, I don’t know whether to call you a fellow or a girl. Which is proper?”
“Girl, of course,” I replied with a smile.
“Well, fellows, Jennie June is part he and part she. He wears trousers, but she has breasts just like a woman and wants us fellows to regard her as a girl.”