“Have they really got a bar?” she says.
“I’ll find out for sure if you’ll wait here a minute,” says I, and led her to a chair where she could watch ’em wrestle.
In the other room I stood next to a Greek that charged ten cents on Sundays and holidays. He was all lit up like the Municipal Pier.
“Enjoyin’ the trip?” I ast him.
“Too rough; too rough!” he says, only I don’t do the dialect very good.
“I bet you never got that shine at your own stand,” says I.
“Too hot to work!” says he. “I don’t have to work. I got the mon’.”
“Yes,” I says; “and the bun.”
A little way off from us was four other political enemies o’ J. Frank Hanly, tellin’ my Greek friend in tonsorial tones that if he didn’t like his Uncle Sammy he knowed what he could do.
“Don’t you like your Uncle Sammy?” I ast him.
“I don’t have to work,” he says. “I got the mon’.”
“Then why don’t you take them boys’ advice,” I says, “and go back to your home o’er the sea?”
“Too rough; too rough!” he says; and in the twenty minutes I stood there with him, findin’ out whether they was really a bar, he didn’t say nothin’ except that he had the mon’, and he didn’t have to work, and somethin’ was too rough.
I and the Missus went back up on deck. I steered for the end o’ the boat that was farthest from where we’d left Bess and Bishop, but they’d began to get restless, and we run into them takin’ a walk.