A New York rough stepped into a Dutch candy
and beer shop this morning, when this conversation
took place:

“I say, Johnny, you son of a gun, give us a mug of
bee-a. D'y' hear?”

“Yah, yah—here it ish,” answered the Dutchman,
briskly handing up a foaming glassful.

“Waal, naow, giv' us 'nother mug, old Switzercase!”

The Cherry Street boy drank off the second glass
and started to go out, when the Dutchman shouted:

“Here, you pays me de monish! What for you run
away?”

“`You pays de monish!' What do you take me for?
I doan't pay for anything. I'm a peeler—that's the
kind of man I am!” growled the rough.

“You ish von tam sneaking, low-lived scoundrel of a
thief—that's the kind of man I am!” shrieked the
Dutchman between his teeth as the Cherry Street boy
shuffled off towards another beer shop.