TAG; OR, THE CHIEN BOULE DOG
enjoyed a good dinner, his beloved master was near and he was content. All was thus quiet in the window and Ella was regaling a select group over the counter with an imitation of Bateese’ dialect, quite unconscious that it did not differ so very widely from her own language of the Bowery. Her spirited account of the “chain bool dog” was interrupted by the entrance of a tall man who, looking over the heads of her admirers, said casually,
“Hello, Ella. Doin’ a music hall turn?”
The woman paled a little and hesitated for an answer, her eyes held by those of the newcomer. The tall man laughed.
“Where’s Abe?” he asked.
“Out,” was the laconic reply, scarcely uttered when a thick voice was heard remonstrating, “No, no, I’ll not advance one d—— cent. It’s not worth it, I tell youse.”
