grab ez soon ez de hearse leaves de house. An' de poor, rich bloke goes ter de same kind uv a hole in de ground dat ennybody else doz, an' it's a hundred ter one shot dat erbout half uv de stuff he had ter leave behind is goin' ter buy wine in de swell dumps fer a bunch uv stage Tommies.

Are yer on?

If I had it I wouldn't hev ter watch it, 'cause I'd be blowin' it in so fast dat it wouldn't need watchin', an' dat's no pipe dream.

De furst t'ing I'd do if I had a million would be ter go ter de Waldorf-Astoria an' hire er sweet uv rooms—yer know, er bunch uv dem. Den I'd give er dinner ter all de mob, wot u'd cost er hundred bucks er plate, an' after I'd got dem all paralyzed wid real wine, I'd send dem home in autermobiles. Den I'd go ter de guy at de desk, an' tell him I wuz goin' ter turn in, an' I'd say:

"I want er good, strong bloke ter cum up an' call me at 7 o'clock in de mornin'."

An' den in de mornin', w'en he'd cum up an' pound on de door, I'd let him hammer his nuckles fer erbout ten minutes, an' den I'd say:

"Git out o' dere, yer Skibboreen harp—I don't hev ter git up."

I'd hire de parks every Sunday, wid Eyetalian bands ter play "Every Day'll be Sunday By an' By," an' I'd hev der swellest tallent you'd want ter sit down an' listen ter.

Dancin? Sure. All de workin' fellers could hev der steadies an' twist ter a knockout, an' if a bundle got freckles in her t'roat—you know, got dry, see—I'd hev coon waiters ter bring her a couple uv tubs uv milk so she could drown de freckles out. De fellers could hev everyt'ing en de bill uv fare, 'cept cigarettes—I wouldn't stand fer dem.

I notice dere ain't no statues on de Bowery. Well, dere ought ter be, an' I'd hev statues of Carrie Nation, Dowie an' Dr. Parkhurst put up, an' I'd hev 'em decorated wid crape.

An' I wouldn't hev nobody carryin' de banner, 'cause I'd hev free sleepin' cribs on every block. W'y should a bloke wot's poor hev ter pay fer sleepin' ennyhow?

Me headqua'ters would be de Waldorf, but I would hev a telephone station in Chinatown, so I could git a hot chop suey w'en I wanted it quick. Ev'ry mornin' at 10 o'clock—or near dere—I'd call up me Chat'am Square agent an' tell him ter give cologne ter der gals an' segars an' free lunch ter der gorillas. Ev'ry bloke dat wuz hungry would have a feed bag an w'enever he wanted it. How does dat crab yer?

I'd give out coupons ter all der mob ter go an' get a bath, a shave, a shine, a hair cut, an' a shampoo, so dey would be all polished up like a door knob, waitin' fer yours truly in his autermobile wid de Chinky chaffer.

An' dis gag erbout art galleries. W'y, dat gives me stagnation uv me liver an' I'll pass it up. Dere'd be no art galleries in mine. I'd hev two or t'ree tons uv corn beef an' cabbage an' a hundred blokes wid pitchforks ter shovel it out. If yer want ter git to der gang, give 'em sumthin' ter eat an' not sumthin' ter look at—not on yer tin-type. A bloke w'ot's hungry ain't stuck on listenin' to a long talk by a feller w'ot's just filled in wid everyt'ing, from soup ter pie, an' a ham sandwi'ch is better to him dan a t'ree t'ousan' dollar cromo.

Young Rockerfeller hez a class uv fellers in a Sunday school, an' he slings a few t'ings at 'em, but he don't stake 'em ter nuttin' except chin music, an' I could do dat meself, an' w'en he gives 'em a dinner he makes 'em pay fer dere own grub. No wonder he's got er million dollars—he ought ter own de earth, if he lives long enuff—I mean, if his father does, cause dere's w'ere de cush cums from in dat family, an' it ain't on der level, either, 'cause no bloke ought ter have more dan he kin earn.

Between you an' me dere's strong arm guys in odder places dan de Bowery, only dey work diffrunt. Stow dis in yer nut, cull, an' t'ink it over. Dere's sum good laws in dis country, but dey needs fixin', an' dere just about ez good ez a growler w'ot's full uv holes—de beer runs out an' de froth stays in. See?

I'd have de Board uv Health go round ter every joint an' see dat all de reg'lars is gittin' de right stuff from de guy behin' de fence. I'd cut out de horse show, 'cause de horses git show enuff. I'd give de people a show fer a change, and I guess by de time all dis would be done I wouldn't have enny more uv me million, an' I'd spend me life in bein' happy, wid nuttin' on me mind ter worry me.

Dat's de only way.

De poor bloke is de best after all, fer he kin be a king wid a ten spot, an' he ain't got nuttin' ter lose.

If he gits wet w'en it rains he knows he'll git dry w'en de sun cums out, an' if he's tied up ter a bundle an' has kids, dey couldn't look enny more like him if he had enuff coin ter make Goold look like a piker.

CHUCK TRIES HEALTH FOOD

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'