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Manhattan Transfer

the racket inside, "Tas de sacrés cochons . . . sporca madonna!" hissed the old waiter. Emile shrugged his shoulders. "That brunette girl make eyes at you all night. . ."

He brought his face near Emile's and winked. "Sure, maybe you pick up somethin good."

"I dont want any of them or their dirty diseases either."

The old waiter slapped his thigh. "No young men nowadays. . . . When I was young man I take heap o chances."

"They dont even look at you. . ." said Emile through clenched teeth. "An animated dress suit that's all."

"Wait a minute, you learn by and by."

The door opened. They bowed respectfully towards the diamond stud. Somebody had drawn a pair of woman's legs on his shirtfront. There was a bright flush on each of his cheeks. The lower lid of one eye sagged, giving his weasle face a quizzical lobsided look.

"Wazzahell, Marco wazzahell?" he was muttering. "We aint got a thing to drink. . . . Bring the Atlantic Ozz-shen and two quarts."

"De suite monsieur. . . ." The old waiter bowed. "Emile tell Auguste, immediatement et bien frappé."

As Emile went down the corridor he could hear singing.

O would the Atlantic were all champagne
Bright bi-i-i. . . .

The moonface and the bottlenose were coming back from the lavatory reeling arm in arm among the palms in the hall.

"These damn fools make me sick."

"Yessir these aint the champagne suppers we used to have in Frisco in the ole days."

"Ah those were great days those."

"By the way," the moonfaced man steadied himself against the wall, "Holyoke ole fella, did you shee that very nobby little article on the rubber trade I got into the morning papers. . . . That'll make the investors nibble . . . like lil mishe."