"Stick!" says he. "Why, bless me! I must have taken this instead of my umbrella. It belongs to that gentleman who sat next to me in the subway train. You see he was leaning back taking a nap in the corner, and I was trying to talk to him, and when I left I suppose I took his cane by mistake."
"Well," says I, "the Zinskis goes with the cane."
It's a fact, too. Most all them immigrant runners carries rattans when they're herdin' gangs of imported pick artists around to the railroad stations. It's kind of a badge and helps the bunch to keep track of their leader. Most likely them Zinskis had had their eyes glued to that cane for hours, knowin' that it was leadin' 'em to a job somewheres, and they wa'n't goin' to let it get away.
"Gimme it," says I; "I'll show you how it works."
Sure enough, soon's I took it and started for the door the whole push quits eatin' cheese and bread out of their pockets and falls in right after me.
"Fine!" says Mr. Robert, grabbin' my hat and chuckin' it after me. "Go on, Torchy! Keep going!"
"Ah, say!" says I. "I ain't subbin' for Cliffy. This is his gang."
But Mr. Robert only grins and motions me to be on my way. "If you come back here before to-morrow morning," says he, "I'll discharge you on the spot."
Now wouldn't that bump you?
"All right," says I: "but this'll cost Cliffy just twenty."