"Wot's yours ?" "Gimme a mug of suds," said Jimmie Dale, reaching for a match.

He puffed at his cigar, blew out the match, and, after a moment, flung the charred end away--but on his hand, as, palm outward, he raised it to take his glass, the match had traced a small black cross.
The barkeeper put down the beer he had just drawn, wiped his hand hurriedly, and with sudden enthusiasm thrust it across the bar.
"Glad to know youse, cull!" he exclaimed.

"Wot's de lay ?" Jimmie Dale smiled.
"Nix!" said Jimmie Dale.

"I just blew in from Chicago.

Used to know de Wowzer dere.