"Hey, cut out the riot!" I calls through the transom; but as there's no letup to the debate I strolls over to the door, prepared to reprove someone real severe.
It's quite some spirited scene out on the landin'. There's old man Bloom, a short, squatty, fish-eyed old pirate with a complexion like sour dough. He has one foot on the next flight, and seems to be retreatin' as he waves his pudgy hands and sputters. Followin' him up is a tall, willowy, black-eyed young woman in a giddy Longchamps creation direct from Canal-st. She's pleadin' earnest that Bloom mustn't forget he's talkin' to a lady. Behind her is a husky, red-haired young gent with his fingers bunched menacin'; while just below, hesitatin' whether to push through the hostilities or beat it back to the street, is Elisha P. Bayne, Esq.
"Give us a show to make good, that's all we ask," the young woman is sayin'. "Put us on somewhere, as you said you would when you took our money."
"Bah!" snorts old Bloom. "I vouldn't sign you for a Third-ave. cabaret. Your act is rotten. A pair of cheab skaters, you are—cheab skaters!"
"Oh, we are, are we?" explodes the young woman. Then, biff! out flashes one of her long arms, and the next thing Bloom knows his silk lid has been smashed down over his eyes.
"Helb! Helb!" he squeals. "Bolice! I vill ged the bolice after you." With that he makes a break past her and goes waddlin' downstairs on the run.
"Now I've done it, I reckon," says the young woman. "And that about finishes us, Timothy dear. He's after a cop."
"Yes, and he'll bring one back," I puts in, "or I don't know Abie Bloom. About five and costs will be the bill. But it ought to be worth it."
"It would, every cent," says she, "if we had the five."
"In that case," says I, "you'd better do a sudden duck."