“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. [Illustration: 0030] 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?”