“Which she proceeded to do,” broke in my friend. “Listen! Th' old dame--after coppin' me dollar--stiffens back an' shuts her eyes; an' next, th' foist flash out of th' box she says--speakin' like th' wind in a keyhole: 'You're in th' midst of trouble; a man is killed!' Then she wakes up. 'W'y didn't youse go t'rough?' I says; T want th' rest. Who is it gets croaked, th' other dub or me?' Th' old dame insists that to go back, an' get th' address of th' party who's been bumped off, she must have another dollar. Oh, they're th' birds, them fortune tellers, to grab th' dough! But of course I can't stop there, so I bucks up wit' another bone. 'There you be,' I says; 'now, is it me that gets it, or does he?” “W'at he?” demanded Whitey. “How do I know?” The tone and manner were impatient. “It's th' geek I'm havin' trouble wit'.” Ike looked at me, as one who would understand and perhaps sympathize, and continued: “This time th' old dame says th' party who's been cooked is some other guy; it ain't me. T can see now that it ain't you,' she says. 'You're ridin' away in a patrol wagon, wit' a lot of harness bulls.' That's good so far. 'So I gets th' collar?' I says. 'How about th' trial?' She answers, 'There ain't no trial;' an' then she comes out of her trance, same as a diver comes up out o' the water.” “Is that all?” asked Slimmy. “That's where she lets me off.” “W'y don't youse dig for another dollar,” said Whitey, “an' tell th' old hag to put on her suit an' go down ag'in for th' rest?” Whitey had been impressed by that simile of the diver. “W'at more is there to get? I ain't killed; an' I ain't tried--that oughter do me. Th' coroner t'rows me loose, most likely. Anyhow, I ain't goin' to sit there all day, skinnin' me roll for that old sponge--a plunk a crack, too.” “Talk of th' cost of livin'!” remarked Slimmy, with a grin. “Ain't it fierce, th' way them fortune tellers'll slim a guy's bank-roll for him, once they has him hooked? They'll get youse to goin'; an' after that it's like one of them stories w'at ends wit' 'Continued in our next.' W'y, it's like playin' th' horses, only woise. Th' foist day you goes out to win; an' after that, you keep goin' back to get even.” Ike the Blood paid no heed to the pessimistic philosophy of Slimmy; he was too wholly wrapped up in what he had been told. “Well,” he broke forth, following a ruminative pause, “anyhow, I'd sooner he gets it than me.” “There you go ag'in about that 'he,'” protested Whitey, and the manner of Whitey was querulous. “Th' guy she sees me hooked up wit'!” This came off a bit warmly. “You know w'at I mean.” “Take it easy!--take it easy!” urged my friend. “What is there to get hot about? You don't mean to say, Ike, you're banking on that guff the old dame handed you?” “Next week”--the shadow of a smile playing across his face--“I won't believe it. But it sounds like th' real t'ing now.” The door of the Bal Tabarin opened to the advent of a weasel-eyed individual.