"They're genuine, ain't they?" I goes on. "Don't hook over the ears with a wire? The whiskers, I mean."
He assures me they grow on him.
"And you're game to tackle any light work with good pay?" I asks.
"I must not cause the death of dumb animals," says he, "or touch their dead bodies. And I may not serve at the altars of your people. But beyond that——"
"You're on, then," says I. "Come along while I stack you up against Madame Zenobia, the Mystic Queen."
We finds the old girl sittin' at a little table, her chin propped up in one hand and a cigarette danglin' despondent from her rouged lips. She's a picture of gloomy days.
"Look what I picked up on Fifth Ave.," says I.
And the minute she spots him and takes in the chestnut whiskers, them weary old eyes of hers lights up. "By the kind stars and the jack of spades!" says she. "A wise one from the East! Who is he?"
"Allow me, Madame Zenobia, to present the Hon. Sour Milk," says I.
"Pardon, Memsahib," he corrects. "I am Sarrou Mellik kuhn Balla Ben, from the Temple of Aj Wadda, in Burmah. I am far from home and without rupees."