"Say, Mac," she assuaged him, "you was tellin' about Lucky Lucille—did she read palms an tell your future and all that?"
"That's what her sign said."
"And did you believe her, did it come out the way she said?"
"A lot of it—why?"
"Oh, I went to a medyum, over on Pell Street, a spooky joint, three flights up, dark an back of a chopsooey hangout. She was half-coon and half chink herself."
"A happy medium," MacAllister gibed.
"Gawd no! There was nothin' happy about her. She was the saddest lookin' dame I ever saw. An', well, she says,—'Dearie, you're goin on a real long journey'"
"You prefer roses?" murmured her tormentor.
Carlotta started, looking furtively over her shoulder. "Oh, Gawd, she couldn't ameant that—but a long journey, over some water"
"Perchance, to 'the Island.'" (He referred to the city prison.)
"Stop your kiddin', Mac, this was serious—she made a big impreshun on me. It was all dark, with two spooky-lookin' guys with turbans, an' a crystal, an' incense burnin'. But she meant the ocean in a ship, an' she said"
Here Carlotta closed her eyes dramatically, and in a somnambulist's voice intoned,—
"I see gold, dearie, showers of gold, an' you in the midst of it"
