Just listen ter me fer er minnit, will yer, cos dere's a lot on me mind dat I'm goin' ter dump right here. I ain't got no kick cumin' ter nobody but meself, an' w'en it cums to er show down I kin see w'ere de Mayor uv Chinatown didn't even git a run fer his money.

Dat's me.

It ain't no use uv fergit it dis time, cos I can't. Dere's sum t'ings er bloke can't git out uv his nut fer er long time.

Wun uv dem, is w'ere a bundle he is stuck on gives him de merry laugh—yer know, de t'row down, de dinky-dink.

De odder is w'ere he gits up agin a new graft wot looks nice an' easy, but wot cums ez hard ez gittin' er ten-case note out uv er Chinkey idol.

Dere's er mug in dis village wot wears his hair long an' is stuck on his shape. He's wun uv dem guys wot's been gittin' all kinds uv cush out uv de fisical culture graft, an' it cum in so fast dat his flippers got sore countin' de coin.

He ain't satisfied wid gittin' coin dat way, but he t'inks he'll cop sum uv de long green wid de grub racket—start restrants, are yer on?

So he goes out an' hires er few joints an' paints all w'ite on de outside, hires er lot uv bundles ter wait on de tables, an' bunch uv good lookin' dames ter be cashiers an' nail de cush from de blokes w'en dey go out, an' den he's ready.

But he's got er good nut on him, in wun way, fer pickin' out dem gals ter sit on high stools behin' de desk an' give de mugs er smile w'en dey pay up. Dere's a hull lot uv people wot'll fall fer dat kind uv graft, an' dey'll steer fer er joint wot hez er han'some gal in front just like er sailor heads fer de Bowery ez soon ez he gits his liberty an' six months' pay.

Dat's wot a cupple uv red ribbons an' er cupple uv rows uv ivory will do to er bloke, whether he's er kid gittin' $3 er week for carryin' bundles, er a big mug down in Wall street wot kin put his feet on de desk w'enever he feels like it.

Well. I sees wun uv dese joints an' I t'inks dat de next time I feel like puttin' er feed bag on dat I'll give it er try out. I'd been better off if I'd let it go at dat an' stuck ter de Irish turkey—ah, corned beef, ain't yer on?—what Her Nobs hands out reg'lar.

Ennyhow, wun fine dav in I blows an' cops out er seat at wun uv de tables. Pretty soon a gal in er w'ite apron cums erlong an' hands me er bill uv fair.

I turned it inside out lookin' fer er fisical culture stake, but dere wuzn't enny meat on it, an' it wuzn't Friday, neither.

Den I pipes off sum uv de blokes wot wuz bizzy feed-in' dere faces. Gully gee, dey wuz shovelin' in corn an' stuff wot looked like de sawdust wot cums out uv er doll, an' drinkin' milk. On de level, half uv 'em looked like dey wuz croakin' wid do ol' con.

“Ha,” sez I ter de bundle, “ain't ver got nuttin' ter eat in dis joint?”

“Sure,” sez she, “look on de bill uv fair.”

“Dat's fer horses,” sez I. “Gimme sumthin' wot er bloke like me kin eat. Ain't yer got no chop suey, er no spuds?”

“Nix,” sez she.

Well, wot d'yer t'ink uv dat. A feedin' crib widout no spuds. Puttin' in er lunch dere wuz like fightin' er coon in er dark alley at nite—you've got ter shut yer eyes an' take er chance. So I sez to der gal: “Ha, sis, I got two bits in me clothes; bring me enny old t'ing.

“Two bits?” she sez. “Wot's dat?”

“Ah, er quarter,” sez I, an' I flashed me coin so she could see I wuz on de level. So she sets her feet agoin' an' went down de line ter de back where dey dig up dat funny chuck.

Dere I sat, like er mug wot had got in de wrong pew an' wuzn't wise ter wot wuz coinin' off de next move an' t'inkin' dat everybody wuz pipin' me off. But de most uv 'em wuz too busy puttin' away de dried hay an' mattress stuffin' ter pay much attention ter yours truly. While I wuz waitin' I got a good chance ter look eround, an' I saw er cupple uv signs which said dat de bloke wot owned de joint wouldn't make good on a guy's lid or ulster if it wuz copped, unless it wuz locked up in de safe, or sumthin' like dat, an' after I read dem I wuz glad I kept mine on, an' I wuz wishin' I had er string ter it, den it would be er cinch.

Well, pretty soon de bundle dat wuz waitin' on me cum back wid er little tray wid erbout five dishes on it, an' each dish had sumthin' on it—but not much.

“W'ere's de knife?” sez I.

“Wot d'yer want er knife fer?” she sez. “Dere ain't nuttin' ter cut.”

Dat wuz er good wun on me, so I tipped her er wink, grabbed er spoon, an' cut loose.

Good nite!

De first jump out uv de box I got er mout'ful uv stuff dat wuz like oats. I chewed it until I wuz near dead fer er drink, den I give me t'roat er twist—just like de strangle hold—an' got it down.

“Say,” sez I, ter an old bloke wot sat next ter me, “how long does er mug live after he gets er bale uv dis in his sistem, or does he live ter git ez much ez dat down him?”

He handed me er tuff look—it couldn't hev been worse if I wuz wun uv dem strong-arm guys wot wuz after his super—yer know, his watch.

“Ain't yer got no mouth on yer?” sez I. “Or do yer only use it fer eatin' hay?”

“Sir,” sez he. “Wuz yer addressin' me?”

“No,” sez I. “I wuz only speakin' ter yer. I wuz askin' yer about dis funny grub. I ain't used ter it. It's er new graft fer me, an' it kinder hurts me face. Are yer on?”

“It's grate,” he sez. “It saved me life, an' I can't speak too much about it. Six months ago I weighed only 103 pounds, an now I weigh 104.”

“Ez much ez dat?” sez I. “I suppose in erbout six years more you'll weigh 105.”

“Sure,” sez he, “an' mebbe I'll be up ter 106.”

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“Well, old pal,” sez I, “why don't yer try my graft. I'll put er feed-bag on yer dat'll make yer look like Jim Jeffries.”

“Ah, indeed,” he sez. “Yer interest me. An' wot may dat be?”

“A big chunk uv corned beef an' cabbage, t'ree times er day, an' erbout sixteen scuttles uv slops at Barney's.”

Say, on de level, I t'ought dere wuz goin' ter er riot, an' I wuz t'inkin' I'd hev ter fite me way ter der door, w'en de old t'rush got w'ite around de gills. I t'ought he wuz goin' ter drop dead w'ere he sat, but he hopped ter his pins like er cricket, an' made er lam fer de frunt door.

I could hear de bell ringin' ter de last round, an' I made er quick finish uv de stuff on de plates, collared de check an' waltzes up ter Miss Handsome, wid er pompydor ez big ez er sofa piller, sittin' on de high stool.

“Here's yer two bits,” sez I, layin' down me coin wid er pain in me heart, fer it wuz like chuckin' it erway.

“T'anks,” sez she, ez she nailed it wid her t'umb an' first finger.

“No t'anks erbout it,” sez I, “but I want ter put yer wise ter sumthin'. Do yer know wot I'm goin' ter do now?”

“No,” sez she.

“Well, I'm goin' out ter er joint w'ere dey has real grub, an' git sumthin' proper to eat. See?”

“Is it ez bad ez dat?” sez she, wid er smile dat would take de buttons off yer vest.

“Worse,” sez I. “So long.”

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