“Say, Palla, when you kiss your old home good-bye, there’s only one place to go. Get me?”
“New York?” she inquired, amused.
“That’s me! There’s a guy down there I used to correspond with––a feller named Puma––Angelo Puma––not a regular wop, as you might say, but there’s some wop in him, judging by his map––or Mex––or kike, maybe––or something. Anyway, he’s in the moving picture business––The Ultra-Fillum Company. I guess there’s a mint o’ money in fillums.”
She nodded, a trifle bored.
“I got a chance to go in with Angelo Puma,” he said, snapping his eyes.
“Really?”
“You know, Palla, I’ve made a little money, too, since you been over there living with the Queen of Russia.”
“I’m very glad, Blinky.”
“Oh, it ain’t much. And,” he added shrewdly, “it ain’t so paltry, neither. Thank the Lord, I made hay while the Slovaks lasted.... So,” he added, getting up from his chair, “maybe I’ll see you down there in New York, some day–––”