“Wyte a bit,” ’e says, “I’ll see if I ain’t gort a dollar on me,” an’ ’e smiles cordial. But ’e watches me fyce sharp, too, as I seen in the lookin-glarss. Then ’e goes to a writin’-desk an’ looks in a dror. “If happen yer don’t want any o’ this yerself, yer can give it to Becky,” he says, an’ ’e seals up a packet an’ gives it to me like ’e was the bloomin’ Prince o’ Wyles. Sure, ’e _was_ toff, clean darn to ’is boot-pegs, I give yer _my_ word! When I gort out o’ doors an’ opened the packet, I near fynted awye. They was a wad o’ hundreds as come to a cool four tharsand dollars. I walked back on the bloomin’ hatmosphere! I come into Bottle Myer’s, just as Big Becky was a-singin’ “Sweet Vylets,” in a long w’ite baby rig an’ a bunnit as big as a ’ogshead. Lord, old Myer _did_ myke a guy o’ thet woman somethink awful! W’en she come off, I was wytin’ in the dressin’-room for ’er. “My Lawd, Jock!” she says, w’en she seen me, “yer didn’t give up the pyper, did yer? Yer knew I was on’y foolin’, didn’t yer? Don’t sye yer let Ikey get a-hold of it! It was good for a hunderd to me any dye I needed the money, if I wanted to give it to the pypers.” Well, that myde me sick, though I’d expecked as much. I was thet disgusted thet she couldn’t stand by ’er word for a hour, thet I couldn’t ’elp syin’, “An’ ’ow abart Miss Wolfstein, as was a friend to yer, w’en all the other women in tarn went back on yer, Becky? Yer know wot _she’ll_ think of yer, don’t yer?” Right then I seen abart as plucky a fight between good an’ bad worked art on ’er fyce, as I ever seen in the ring, London Prize rules to a finish. An’ if you’ll believe it, gents, the big woman’s gratitude to the Wolfstein gal come art on top, an’ the stingy part of ’er was knocked art flat. It were a tough battle, though, I give yer _my_ word, before I got the decision. She bit ’er lip till the blood come through the rouge, standin’ there, a great whoopin’ big mounting o’ flesh with baby clothes an’ a pink sash on, an’ a wig an’ bunnit like a bloomin’ Drury Lyne Christmas Pantymime. I just stood an’ looked at ’er! I’m blowed if she didn’t git almost pretty for ’alf a mo, w’en she says: “I’m glad yer did give it up, Jock; I’m glad, nar it’s all over. But thet five hundred would ’ave syved me life, for old Myer ’as give me the sack to-dye, an’ I don’t know wot’ll become o’ me.” Wot did I do? I done wot the dirtiest sneak in the Pen would a did, an’ ’anded art the envelope an’ split the pile with ’er. * * * * * Coffee John fetched a deep sigh. “Well, gents, thet’s w’ere I got me start. The wad didn’t larst long, for I was green an’ unused to money, but I syved art enough to set me up here, an’ ’ere I am yet. I never seen Big Becky sinct.