Part 2

“Well, I tell yer how it is, Chuck. Poor Kitty Mock Shue is layed flat on her back, an' down an' out wid de gallopin' con, an' de doctor sez she ain't got much time ter fix up de insoorance papers.”

Say, cull, she wuz just like a guy wot had got a wallop on de jaw an' wuz half out. She went inter Barney's an' got her pint, an' w'en she cum out, she sez:

“Chuck, Kitty wants ter see yer about sumthin'. Cum on up ter de house. Mock Shue won't mind--he likes yer ever since he went ter de t'eatre an' saw yer on de stage wid de bunch.” An' so I digs up wid her ter see Kitty.

De room wuzn't no swell joint, an' it wuzn't no Waldorf Astoria dump, but it wuz jes' poor an' plain. Dey had a fine place before de Reformers closed up Mock's t'ree fan-tan joints, an' w'en times wuz good den his luck would run up inter de t'ousands on sum nites. His game wuz known ter be de squarest in Chinatown, an' no wun wuz ever trimmed by him. Chinkey traders and laundrymen from all over de country didn't feel rite w'en dey cum ter New York if dey didn't have a rap at one uv Mock Shue's games. Dem wuz de good days, an' I t'ought uv dem ez I stood in dat little bum room. Doze wuz de days w'en Kitty wuz a belle, an' wore seal-skin saks an' di'monds an' jewelry by der ton, an' dere wuz all kinds uv coin in her kick.

Now it wuz a case of Mock bein' lucky if he could cum ter light on der lan'lord's birthday--yer know, pay de rent.

I looked over at wun end uv der room an' saw er bunk. At de odder end wuz a stove wot had seen better days, an' dere wuz a couple uv pots an' kittels wot Mock cooked his grub in, hangin' on nails. An' nixey fer de bed--if a good healt'y bloke went ter sit on it he would send it ter de floor. On wun side wuz a Joss alter, wid a picture uv Joss hangin' behind it, an' a bunch uv Joss sticks burnin' in front, an' a sweet oil lamp, an' a couple uv tea cups on each side, full uv tea, fer Joss ter drink w'en he wuz t'irsty.

Nobody sez a word. Mock an' his pal, Chin Wee, wuz on de bunk, hittin' de pipe; Lizzie Brennan wuz leanin' agin de end uv de bed an' Big Annie wuz sittin' on er soap box alongside. De room wuz full uv smoke like de Nort' river on a foggy mornin' from de pipe de Chink wuz hittin', an' it smelled like taffy candy a burnin'. You know, dat's de way de hop smells. De floor wuz pritty clean fer a joint like dat, fer Peg wuz after scrubbin' it on account uv de Chinese doctor bein' expected. I went over ter Kitty, an' I sez: “Happy New Year, Kit.”

She looked at me, den shut her eyes, dropped her head on wun side uv de pillow, an' sez:

“It's a Happy New Year fer you, Chuck, but it's tuff on me.” She tried ter wet her lips wid her tongue. Den she looked eround an' sez, agin: “Put yer hand under me back, Chuck, an' lift me up.”

So I lifted her up, an' stuck a bunch uv pillows behind her, an' she brushed her hair back an' looked eround de room.

“Well, Kate, old gal, how are yer feelin'?” sez I, 'cause I had ter say sumthin'--I couldn't be standin' dere like a dead wun.

“Net very good, Chuck,” she sez. “Mock brought up de Chinee doctor an' he give me sumthin'--it's med'cine--it's dere in de stone jug, an' it's got me Head a-reelin'. I t'ink dere must be sumthin' in it dat makes me feel rocky.”

I see she wuz gettin' kind uv nutty--yer know dat Chinky med'cin' is funny stuff--so I tol' Peg ter turn out der beer an' give Kitty a glass ter take der taste uv der med'cin' out uv her t'rottle. So we all had a glass an' I tuk a glass over ter Mock an' asked him ter drink fer Happy New Year, but he sez:

“No, Chuck, I no dlinkee now; too muchee solly; you sabe. Kitty too muchee bimeby die.”

“Not on yer life, Mock,” sez I. “Kitty ain't goin' ter die. She's all ter de good. She looks like er boilermaker goin' ter work.”

“Me no t'ink so, Chuck,” he sez. “She too muchee dlink, an' too muchee smoke opium. Now she makee die.”

“Ah ferget it,” sez I, “she'll be all rite. See, she's laffin'; don't yer see her?”

De odder monk didn't screw his nut wunce w'ile we wuz chinnin'; he kep' rite on cookin' de opium pill over de sweet oil lamp fer anudder smoke, fer he didn't care if de w'ole worl' wuz on de bum, an' he wuz de Commiss'oner uv Char'ties an' got his graft. He lost sight uv us in de last pill he smoked, an' his lamps went out on him. Den Mock went up again de pipe himself an' went over to de foot uv de bed. De two bundles went out, an' I wuz sittin' dere like a tombstone, fiddlin' wid me fingers, an' t'inkin' w'ot a grate time de mob wuz havin'. Mock's pal went out lookin' as if he'd played de dead man's gig wid forty cents in stage money, an' in anudder minnit Mock was stretched out snorin' like a steam engin'. I got kind uv dopey meself, sittin' dere wid nobody ter chin ter, an' I played off inter a snooze. I don't know how long I wuz asleep, but de fi'st t'ing I knows, I woke up wid Kitty shakin' me. I t'ought she had a fit de way she wuz glarin' aroun' de room.

“Listen, Chuck, listen,” an' she grabbed me by der shoul'ers wid a grip like Jeffries.

Dere wuz a mob goin' past in de street singin' dat ol' song, “I Dream't Me Dear Ol' Mudder wuz er Queen.”

“Do yer hear dat, Chuck,” sez she, an' I couldn't say nuttin'. Den she broke out cryin' an' falls back on her piller. Say, on de level, she made me feel kin' uv spongy meself.

“Cheese it, Kit,” sez I. “Don't do dat; ferget it; dis is New Year's Eve.”

“I wish I could be dat way again, out on de street wid de mob, havin' a good time,” she sez, “but I know I'm all in. I've had mine, I guess, an' de finish is almos' here, but listen Chuck,” she sez. Den she reached aroun' under de mattress an' pulled out a little package, an' she begins pullin' off de papers, one sheet after anudder, all de time cryin' as if she wuz never goin' ter stop, an' w'en de las' piece uv paper cum off she flashed er gold ring. She looked at it fer a minnit an' den she sez as she held it up:

“Chuck, do yer see dis? It's me weddin' ring, an' dat's why I keep it so dear. But it's turned agin me like all de worl' has, an' dat's w'y I tol' Peg Dillon ter tell yer ter cum up. De rent is due tomorrer, Chuck, an' we ain't got a nickel, an' we can't make a touch from no one. Yer know w'en yer down yer ain't got no friends.”

On de level, I could feel a wrinkle cum in me heart.

“It's de same ol' sayin', Chuck, w'en yer got it ev'rybody will stick ter yer. I've hocked ev'ryt'ing dat would bring in a dollar, an' dis is de las' t'ing I've got. I kept it ter look at an' ter make me t'ink uv long ago. Take it, yer know what ter do wid it.”

Say, I don't of'en get dripple, but I wuz near it dat time. Yer know dere's some t'ings wot' gits ter a feller, no matter w'ot kind uv clothes he wears. I wouldn't stan' fer her lettin' her last piece uv junk go.

“Soak it away agin, Kitty,” sez I, “an' I'll go out an' give de road a dash, an' if I kin dig up enny uv dem swell cream cakes from uptown, w'ot's down here ter see de sights, yer kin bet yer sweet life dey won't get away dis time from yours truly, an' de lan'lord will git his coin.”

Dere ain't no finish ter dis, but Kitty didn't croak after all.

P. S.--De lan'lord got his rent all rite, an' dere wuzn't no kick cumin' from him.

CHUCK AND SLATS IN SOCIETY

|I wuz uptown wunce w'en I had de time uv me life. Dere's a good many uv de mob around de Reservation wot ain't never been uptown. Dey never travelled an' don't know nuttin'. Yer kin rend t'ings out uv books an' papers but you've got ter see 'em if yer want ter git next rite.

Dat's de only way.

Well, dis is de way dis trip happened.

A bloke wot lives uptown an' knows all erbout it an' who's er kind uv er pal uv mine on account uv me knowin' him so long cum down wun nite an' tips me off dat he wants ter take me an' me gal up to er swell dump w'ere dere's er racket. I wuz afraid dat I would have ter dig up wun uv dose funny suits uv clothes wid er white shirt, but he said nixey, dat it wuz all rite ter go just as I wuz. So I hussies around and digs up Slats--me bundle, yer know--an' off we start.

“Cum on,” sez de swell bloke, “let's take er car.”

“No,” sez I, “let's do de Dan O'Leary--walk, yer know--an' blow in de car far fer er cupple uv mugs uv ale.”

It wuz like goin' ter China fer Slats, fer she always stuck to de block, an' by de time we got ter Fourteenth street she wuz hancin' on ter me right wing like.

I give her a waist hold wot almost took her off her pins. “Dis guy hez got us uptown here an' if yer ain't careful he'll switch an' drop us in an ice wagon an' give us er freeze out. So keep dat kisser uv yours barricaded an' consider yerself stuffed 'til yer git back.”

Just den de bloke we wuz wid handed me er segar dat wuz er beaut. It must hev cost ten cents, enny-how.

Den Slats opened up ag'in.

“Say, Willie,” she sez, “yer ain't got er cigaret, hev yer?”

“Sure,” sez he, an' he hands her er box uv 'em.

Well, she copped de whole bunch an handed him back de empty box.

De bloke looked at me an' I looked at Slats an' she looked at de cigaret's. Wot do yer t'ink uv dat fer gall?

W'en I got er chance I whispered:

“Say, w'ere's de bloke's cigaret's?”

“Wot bloke's cigaret's?” she sez.

“W'y de bloke wot brought us up here.”

Den she gives me de old gaserline smile and sez:

“Ah, fergit it.”

“I won't fergit it, an' wot do ver tink uv dat?” sez I.

“Well, try an' fergit it,” sez she.

Dat took all de asbestos out uv me fer a minnit, so I sez:

“All rite me old bundle, I'll put de kibosh on you w'en we git back ter de Reservation.”

By this time she wuz gittin' kinder used ter de lights, an' I could see she wuz gittin' fresh. So I t'ought dat maybe I'd hev ter hand her wun just ter keep her in her place, w'en we pulled up in frunt uv er big joint.

“Wot dump is dis?” sez Slats.

“Dis is er hotel,” sez he.

Wid dat Slats give me er nudge wid de elbow an' wun uv dem bum winks.

“Whoever heard uv er hotel ez big ez dat?” sez she an' she wouldn't stand fer it fer er minnit.

In de front dere wuz er lot uv swell bundles wid all kinds uv togs on an quarries--yer know di'monds--in dere ears. I wuz takin' dem all in an' Slats wuz pipin' in der frunt winders at der guys wid de feed bags on, w'en de bloke we wuz wid hustled us erlong, but she went back ter git anudder look an' de first t'ing I knew she wuz hollerin':

“Ha, Chuck, Chuck, cum here.”

So I goes back an' dere she wuz wid er laugh on her face dat went from her ears ter her eyebrows, “Say,” she sez, “pipe de clothes dis mug hez got on. Dat's grate, ain't it?”

“Dat's er bell boy,” sez de bloke.

“Bell boy, nix,” she sez. “Under de table fer yours. Wot are yer tryin' ter do, string me? Yer might call him er bell boy, but I don't seen no bells about him. I t'ink he's er ringer.”

Well, we dragged her away before she got pinched, an' den we landed in de place w'ere de racket wuz. We took it all in from plush ter creem cakes, an' we hadn't been dere twenty minuits w'en sum swell mug copped Slats an' took her away from me. But dat didn't faze me, fer I went down to de fence wid sum uv de mob an' got t'rowin' booze inter me sistem an' smokin' dem Hennery Clay butts. After erwhile I sez to meself: “I guess I'll go an' dig up Slats.”

I wuz lookin' fer her so long dat, on de level, I t'ought I'd get nearsighted, an' w'en I got er flash uv her w'ere do yer t'ink she wuz? Over in er corner wid er bloke dat had er lace curtain on his Mulligan--yer know, whiskers on his face.

I tares over to her an' sez:

“Cum on, Sis, dere's er bloke over here wot wants yer ter give him er twist.”

“Tell de bloke ter send over his card,” she sez. “Mebbe I don't know him.”

“His wot?” sez I.

“His card,” sez she. “Yer ain't no boiler-maker. Yer heard wot I sed.”

Ain't it funny de way tarts will fall fer er new graft. Slats wuz rite in line, an' wuz actin' just like doze swell bundles wot give er guy de frozen face w'en dey don't like de way he combs his hair. Take it frum me, cull, it takes er woman ter git next quick. Put 'em enny-where's, an' yer'd t'ink dey'd lived dere all dere lives.

De old bloke pulled out er pair uv gig-lamps an' put 'em on, an' den he give me er grate sizin' up. Den he turned ter Slats, an' sez:

“Who's yer friend?”

Well, dat got me goin', an' I sez: “Me? Why, I'm Chuck Connors, de Mayor uv Chinatown, an' how do yer feel after de shock?”

He wuz goin' ter say sumthin, but I cut him off, an' I told Slats she had ter cum out on de floor an' give me er twist.

“Not on yer tut tut,” she sez. “Yer out uv it.”

“Are ye sore on me because dis mug yer wid hez got er super an' is all dressed up like er flat on de instalment plan?”

“Shove off frum me an' me company,” sez she.

I give her er look, an' bein' strange ter de place, I didn't know wot ter do, so I t'inks de safest t'ing is de best, an' I screws me nut fer de Reservation, leavin' Her Nobs wid old boy Whiskers.

I hit de feathers somew'ere's about 2 o'clock, an' de next mornin' er cupple uv de mob cum up ter tell me dat Slats wuz pinched fer sluggin' two Chinks an' stoppin' er trolley car on de Bowery, an' fer givin' de cop er fight w'en he tried ter take her in.

Dere wuz only wun t'ing fer me ter do, so I takes er walk over ter de Tombs, an' dere I seen her wid er bunch uv de talent in de pen. She looked kind uv rockey. I went over and sez: “Wot's de matter wid yer?”

“Nuttin,” sez she. “Pay me fine an' don't leave me here wid dis bunch.”

“Pay nuttin,” sez I. “I ought ter give yer a wallop in de kisser. I guess yer fergit last nite, don't yer? Yer ought ter git er good thumpin'.”

“I wouldn't kick if I did,” she sez. “But say, Chuck, yer wouldn't hev de heart ter leave me here, would yer, wid dis bunch uv bums?”

Just den wun uv de bundles wot wuz sloughed up dere--wid er peach uv er black eye an' er t'ree-months thirst--butted in wid: “Excuse me, Miss, are yer referin' ter me? Fer if yer are, I want yer ter understand dat I'm none uv yer cheap Chinatown tarts, I ain't.”

“Mebbe yer ain't,” sez Slats, “but yer kin drink all de bum roof paint dey got in Chinatown, an' yer needn't put on enny lugs in dis joint.”

It made me feel kid uv good ter hear Slats hand it back like dat, so I sez: “Cut it out, Sis, an' lissen ter er wise crack. Will yer be nice if I pay yer fine?”

“Will I?” she sez. “Just you put up de dough, an' den watch me do de minuet out uv dat door.” So I went ter de bloke behind de desk, an' sez: “Say, have yer got Slat's name in yer album?”

“Nothin' doin',” sez he.

“Well, hev yer got Kitty McClinchy dere?”

“Sure,” he sez. “Ten dollars.”

So I digs down in me kick an' cums up wid er ten spot.

“De best uv friends must part,” sez I, ez I let go uv it, “an' it don't grow in er mug's pocket like grass in de country. Cum on Slats,” I hollered, an' we heads fer Chinatown. “Uptown may be all rite, but it costs coin ter git wid dat swell push. Are yer goin' ter be good, now?”

She didn't say nuttin' but chucked her arms around me neck, an' dat wuz wort' $10 enny day.

Dat nite we buried de hatchet in four cans ov Barney's Best.

THE DOINGS OF DUGAN AND CLANCY

|I wuz tellin' a story to a guy about Chinatown and I says to him: “Dere wuz t'ree of us when a chaw butts in.” “What's a chaw?” says he.

“Say, don't you know what a chaw is? He's a mug wid a sponge in his mout' you know; a flannel-mout' bloke. Well, dere wuz t'ree of us when de chaw came in, 'n he bangs his toot'pick on de bar. Toot'pick? Why, dat's de iron hook dey use to handle freight and cases. He bangs his toot'pick on de bar 'n says, 'Line up 'n t'row in.'”

“What's dat? Say, you're a' undertaker.” Dat's 'n invitation on de Reservation. He says, “Line up 'n t'row in.”

So we line up, de t'ree of us, 'n says mixed ale. De boss, he says he'd smoke a ham. Aw, say, forget it. I t'ink dey could ring a peter on a mug as slow as you. Smoke a ham? Why, dat's a torch. Don't you know what a torch is? Well, up in de Tenderloin dey call it a cigar. Peter? Oh, run away Chawley, some bloke'll steal you. Peter? Dat's a drink dey call Mr. Snyder. Say, is you gettin' rats in de nut? Didn't I tell you that a peter is a Mr. Snyder and a Mr. Snyder is a peter, 'n dat's on de dead. Why, it's a knockout, see. Say, do ye t'ink ye kin kid me? You don't know dat a Dago's 'n Italian, 'n a Monk's a Chink. Say, your dead ratty. A Chink, why dat's a Chinee. Well, as I wuz tellin' yer, de boss says he'd smoke a herrin'. De mug behind de fence. Aw, say, you give a pain in de neck.

De mug behind de fence, dat's de barkeep, he twists out four scuttles an' a torch. Say, on de level, ye got me dead leary. What did we tell de mug behind the fence we wanted mixed ale for, ha-? Well, den you ought to know dat a scuttle is a mixed ale, see? De mug behind de fence, he twists out four an' a torch. De chaw he says:

“What do yer want?”

De mug behind de fence he says: “Toity, toity.”

“What,” says de chaw.

“Toity cents,” says de mug behind de fence.

De chaw he counts.

“Wan, two, t'ree, four 'n a torch is foive. Twenty-foive,” he says.

“Toity, ye chaw,” says de mug behind de fence, reaching fer de convincer.

“Toity hell,” says de chaw. “Foive foives is twenty-foive.”

De boss he says: “I smoke ten cent torches ye know.”

“Phat?” says de chaw. “Tin cints fur a cigar? De ye t'ink I'm a good ting?”

De boss, he says: “Well, I wanted a good smoke.”

“Good smoke,” says de chaw, “good smoke, is it ye want?” an' he dives down into his pocket an' brings out his poipe an' terbaccy an' hands it at him.

“Here,” he says, “take me poipe. Tin cints fur a cigar.”

Well, what do yer t'ink of dat? 'N he wouldn't put up d' toity. What happened him? Aw, say, forget it. Dere was a collar outside when he landed. Collar? Say, on d'level, you're stuffed. Collar? Why a collar's a cop. Well, dere was a collar outside when he landed, 'n I t'ought he was goin' t' sneeze him. Say, you may be a dead fly mug in de Tenderloin, but you're a peter here. Sneeze him; what does a cop do when he nails a mug, but sneeze him. But he didn't. What did he do to him? Say, forget it. I bet d' chaw ain't sat down since. Say, I thought dey'd need a rattler to move him. Rattler. You gilly, what do they cart a chaw off in when a collar gets tru beltin' him, generally? A rattler is a patrol; dat's what. Well, I thought dey'd need a rattler to take d' chaw off. D' boss he never turned a hair. He tells us to t'row in wit him, 'n we t'rowed in, an' he lights d' herrin' d' chaw didn't pay for. Say, d' boss is d' levelest bloke on de Reservation. Say, he'd stand at a bar 'n blow his brains out wid yer.

What become of the chaw? Aw, say, what become o' last winter's snow? But I know about a week after dis big harp goes into a Chinese laundry for his wash wid anudder harp named Clancy. De Chink dat ust' own de laundry sold it to another Chink, see. Well, in goes dis big harp. His name was Dugan. He t'rows down de ticket for de laundry. De Chink wuz ironing, an' sed:

“No goodie tickie, just now,” and kept on ironing. “Phat's that you say?”

The Chink after a while said:

“I talk you, tickie no goodie.”

“No good, eh?”

Well you ought to see dem two harps. Dugan looked at Clancy and den at the Chink and said:

“Say, you funny-eyed devil, if you don't give me phat belongs to me--that's me overalls and jumper--be the holy smoke, I'll bate your dirty, yellow puss till there's more wrinkles in it then there's in a washboard, you dirty washie, washie,” and he makes a grab at de Chink. But de Chink jumped out of de way, and grabbed a flat-iron to soak him. Then Clancy, de udder harp, grabbed de Chink be th' neck and soaked him in de features wit his right, and trowed him down, and de two of dem started in soakin' him all over de laundry, when another Chink came out of de back room wit a club. When Dugan seen him he made for him. De Chink seen the size of Dugan, he dropped de club, and grabbed a fist full of wet starch out of a pail and soaked Dugan between de lamps wit it. While Dugan was tryin' to get it out uv his eyes de two Chinks kept on wallopin' him wit de clubs till poor Dugan had to take it on a jump tru de door, and left Clancy to be thrown in a wash tub and drowned wit a half dozen pails of dirty water. Well, say, when Clancy came up out of de laundry his head and kisser wuz all covered wit blue, and he wuz leakin' like a bloke dat had water on de brain. And dere wuz Dugan up de street, tryin' to get de starch out of his lamps wit his fingers. When Clancy spied Dugan, he walked down to him and grabbed him by de arm. Dugan looked up, and thinkin' Clancy wuz de Chink, de way he wuz covered wit blue, wuz just goin' to go at him again, when Clancy yelled: “Hold on there, Dugan, hold on; it's me, Clancy.”

Dugan looked up at him, still trying to get the starch out of his lamps, and every now and then saying: “Say, Clancy, how did you come out?”

“Take it from me, them Chinks are bad blokes te monkey wid.”