384 FICKLE GAMEY. 



us a lift. Will you step? Ah; that's proper. Fifty, 

 it is — good enough. It will be put where it will do 

 the most good when they open. 



Was I ever there, did you say? Well, I should 

 remark, that is a proper question for a gentleman 

 who has made paths between race tracks for a bunch 

 of years. In my whirl I have seen both sides of the 

 card, played black and red, won on star green, been 

 flushed with birds, and chased to cover by the 

 Pinkies; and for what — to live without working. By 

 my wits, did you say? Who told you? Ha! ha! It 

 was Gamey tipped you the wink. Gamey of all the 

 world. He lived before they were off at the Gut. 

 Snowballs in plenty in those days — ey, Gamey ! But 

 for once I will chirp. Not in my line, but as Gamey 

 has tipped me off, here goes. 



In the old days when Harlem was further from 

 New York than it is now, the transportation being 

 slower, Gamey, the bird on the stick, hopped out 

 among the goats to One Hundred and Twenty-fifth 

 Street. He was swagger, you had better believe, 

 with his fedora and cigar at an angle of forty-five, like 

 a well-shod trotter, and as he paraded down Lexing- 

 ton Avenue, what did he do but run full tilt into the 

 arms of a maiden sister to a sporty butcher in Har- 

 lem. Like a bit of trading stock, her age was uncer- 

 tain, but she wanted a man, and Gamey being a bird 

 in the hand was worth two in the bush. Before you 

 could prance around a block, the pair were thicker 

 than thieves in Mott Street, and nothing would do 

 but that Gamey would hop home with her for tea. 

 Would he go? Well, when any of the craft steps by 

 a feed, let me know it. They had buns, beer and 



