"Well, come here. Let me smell your breath." He'd take a smell and say:

"Go and sit down, you bung-hole."

Then he'd pick me out and say:

"Ho, Chuck, come here. Kin you make 118?"

"I don't know, manager," I'd say. Den he'd take me over to de scales and make me get on, and I'd shove de ring up to 135.

"You can make it all rite," he'd say, an' then he'd horse me over to the Sheeney t'ree-cent baths and leave me dere fer twelve hours wit' nuttin' to eat and nuttin' to drink.

Well, I wuz talkin' to one of de blokes dat wuz bringin' in de soap an' water to me an' in comes de manager hollering murder watch. He comes taring over to me in de swet room an' sez:

"Say, wrot's de matter wit' you?"

"Wot's de matter?" I sez.

De manager sez, "Say, how is yuz goin' to get down to weight talkin' all de time?"

Well, to make a long story short, I sez:

"Manager, I got to talk to make meself believe I'm alive, fur on de level I've been livin' on suspission for de last t'ree weeks, an' now your feedin' me on de extract."

"Extract of what?" asked de wise guy, showing his crockery wid a gas laugh.

"Oh, extract of suspission, of course," I sed, an' I gave him a smile dat dazzled his eyes an' put freckles on his neck, an' I waltzed away to de tune of 'I don't care if you never come back.'

Trainin'? Oh, good nite. Dat manager could train a bloke up an' down in a minnit. He could take it off an' put it on so fast dat de scales would keep jumpin' around like a Dago fruit peddler wid his cart upset. Dere ain't no manager like him no more, an' it's a good t'ing fer de nuckle-pushers dere ain't, 'cause de coin would be all goin' one way—an' dat way would be de manager's.

Original

THE TRUE STORY OF KITTY

I know dis ain't de rite time ter hand out a New Year's gag, but dis is wun I had in me nut a long w'ile, an' dere's many a time w'en dere ain't nuttin' doin' dat I t'inks uv it. Dis is wun uv doze stories wot's on de level, an' it don't take enny fancy writin', because it just cums itself, like enny t'ing else dat's real.

I wuz standin' on de corner las' New Year's eve, an' de mob wuz cumin' down in droves, like a bunch uv gorillas—lafin', singin', hollerin' an' blowin' dere horns. Everybody had a happy feelin' an' a glad smile, an' dey wuz goin' t'ru de Reservation ez if dey wuz doin' a cake walk wid chow chop suey an' mushrooms fer a prize. Nuttin' wuz botherin' dem, an' dey wuz grabbin' dere bundles an' singin' "W'en Katie an' I Wuz Coinin' T'ru de Rye," ez if dat wuz all dey had on der minds. Dey didn't care nuttin' fer us blokes, 'cause we are only a side show fer such as dem. An' me standin' dere alone widout a drink in me sistem, an' no wun ter cum along an' say: "Happy New Year, Chuck."

But, say, old pal, ain't dat alwuz de way? Ain't it a case uv laff an' de world laffs wid yer?

Well, I takes a slow walk down de lane, w'ich wuz like a looney factory wid dat mob pushin' t'ru, an' I wuz feelin' ez if I didn't have a frien' in de world, w'en I meets Peg Dillin wid a can. She wuz goin' ter Barney's fer er pint an' her New Year's bottle. She stops me in front uv Hung Fan Low's store, an' sez: "Hello, Chuck."

"Hello, Peg," sez I. "Wot's der word?"

"All ter de bad," sez she, "all ter de bad." She begin shufflin' her feet on de sidewalk and changin' de growler from one hand ter de odder. She acted like she had sumthin' on her mind, an' wuz afraid ter let go. I wuz on dat dere wuz sumthin' de matter an' I begin ter scratch me nut an' wuz t'nkin' ter meself, "Will I, or will I not?" Yer know how a bloke feels w'en he sees a gal down-hearted like dat—he don't want ter touch her troubles. But dis wuz a case w'ere I had ter dig in an' find out who wuz who, an' wot wuz wot. So I gets me gall tergedder an' puts me hand on her shoulder, an' sez:

"Say, Peg, on de level—give it ter me straight—wot makes yer look like a dead one? Yer don't want ter be like dat on New Year's eve, or yer won't be ripe w'en de summer cums agin."

She gives a kind uv little shiver, just ez if she had er kind uv a chill, an' sez:

"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.

Original

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