“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.