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."

Original

"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."

Original

ONE WAY TO TRAIN

Some of dese blokes w'at wants ter be fiters gives me a pane in me slats, an' I t'ink dey ought ter be in de surkus, or else wearin' blue and pink wrappers, wid lace around de neck.

If dere's any fite in a guy it's goin' ter cum out just like de measles, or any old t'ing he has in his system.

Look 'em over an' see w'at you t'ink of dem.

An' anudder t'ing. As soon as dey wins a cupple of fites an' gits dere mug in de papers, dey wants ter go on de stage an' look pritty, an' be among de actorines all de time.

How kin a knuckle-pusher be an actor?

Nix, cul, nothin' doin'.

He's either goin' ter be a good actor an' a bum fiter, or a good fiter an' a bum Willie boy w'ere de footlites grow.

I say, if yer got a good graft, stick to it, an' don't try an' butt in on sumbody elses puddin'.

But I wuz talkin' about trainin'.

I ain't never told how we used ter train, an' we didn't wear no fancy bat' robes in de ring in doze days, an' we didn't have no trainin' quarters either, unless yer kin call de back room of a mixed-ale joint trainin' quarters, an' w'en we wanted ter take on weight we got two beef stews, an' w'en we wanted ter take it off we had a t'ree-cent Turkish bat'.

But I'll tell you w'at happened at de Reserwation last nite.

Here's de way it cum off:

"Say, Chuck, I hear you ust to be a prize-fighter," said a wise guy with one of them bum wise winks.

A prize-fighter? Well, I'll tell yuz I ust to be a fighter, but I don't know if I wuz a prize-fighter. No, I don't t'ink I wuz a prize-fighter, for I'll tell you why. Every time I went into dat graft yuz call prize-fighting de best I got wuz only for de odder fellow.

Say, I'll tell yuz something about de time when yours truly wuz in de graft.

I ust to hang out in a joint in Chinatown. It wuz a gin mill, and de bloke dat run it, he ust to deal in bum booze and dat class of prize-fighters. We ust to call him de manager, see.

Well, dis bloke I'm telling yuz about; de manager? Yes. Well, dis bloke ust to get all de fights for de bunch, see, and he'd pick out one of de bunch and say to him:

"Say, how much do you weigh?"

De nuckle-pusher he'd look at himself in de glass and say:

"Oh, about 180."

Den dis bloke, de manager, he'd trow his oyster on de nuckle-pusher and say:

"You're too heavy. I want a mug about 118."

Den he'd go in de back room and he'd weigh up de bunch dat would be sleepin' on de chairs, an' he'd shake de chairs and wake de talent, you know, de nuckle-pushers.

"Aw. w'ot are yer talkin' about? If dere's enny fite in a bloke, it's got to come out, just like de measles."

Original

Well, he'd say: "How much doz any of yuz mugs weigh?"

Well, dey would all begin stretchin' and gappin', and den some of dem would say, with a gap and another stretch:

"What weight do you want?"

Den de manager he'd say: "I want a 118-pound man."

"Say, Jim," one of de bunch asked, "what's de weight?"

De whole bunch jumped to dere feet with: "Say, Jim, I kin do dat."