“Well,” said Sammy, when he had ceased laughing, “if th' Ghost does double-cross me, w'at'll youse do?” “W'at'll I do? As sure as my monaker is Pretty Agnes, I'll have him cooked.” “Good goil!” said Sammy Hart. Gangland discusses things social, commercial, political, and freely forms and gives opinions. From a panic in Wall Street to the making of a President, nothing comes or goes uncommented upon and unticketed in Gangland. Even the fashions are threshed out, and sage judgments rendered concerning frocks and hats and all the latest hints from Paris. This you can test for yourself, on any evening, at such hubs of popular interest as Sirocco's, Tony's, Jimmy Kelly's or the Chatham Club. Sirocco's was a-swarm with life that Saturday evening when Pretty Agnes dropped in so casually. At old Jimmy's table they were considering the steel trust investigation, then proceeding--ex-President Roosevelt had that day testified--and old Jimmy and the Irish Wop voiced their views, and gave their feelings vent. Across at Slimmy's the dread doings of a brace of fair ones, who had excited Coney Island by descending upon that lively suburb in harem skirts, was under discussion. Speaking of the steel trust investigation and its developments, old Jimmy was unbelting after this wise. Said he, bringing down his hairy fist with a whack that startled every beer glass on the table into an upward jump of full three inches: “Th' more I read of th' doin's of them rich guys, th' more I begin to think that th' makin' of a mutt lurks in every million dollars. Say, Wop, they don't know how to pick up a hand an' play it, after it's been dealt 'em. Take 'em off Wall Street an' mix 'em up wit' anything except stocks, an' they can't tell a fire plug from a song an' dance soubrette. If some ordinary skate was to go crabbin' his own personal game th' way they do theirs, th' next you'd hear that stew would be in Blooming-dale.” “Phwat's eatin' yez now, Jimmy?” inquired the Wop, carelessly. “Is it that steel trusht thing th' pa-a-apers is so full of?” “That an' th' way Morgan an' th' balance of that fur-lined push fall over themselves. Th' big thing they're shy on is diplomacy. When it comes to diplomacy, they're a lot of dead ones.” “An' phwat's diplom'cy?” The Wop didn't like big words; his feeling was to first question, then resent them. “Phwat's diplom'cy?” he repeated. “Diplomacy,” said old Jimmy, “is any cunnin' move that lands th' trick. You wake up an' hear a noise; an' you think it's some porch-climber, like th' Nailer here, turnin' off th' joint. At that, not knowin' but he's framed up with a gun, you don't feel like goin' to th' mat with him. What do you do? Well, you use diplomacy. You tosses mebby a dumbbell over th' bannisters, an' lets it go bumpin' along from step to step, makin' more row than some geezer failin' down stairs with a kitchen stove. Th' racket throws a scare into th' Nailer, an' he beats it, see?” “An' that's diplom'cy!” said the Wop.