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Updated: May 18, 2025
Oh, hell, I won't spill me troubles like an old tissy-cat.... So you're going to Panama? I want yuh to sit down and tell me about it. Whachu taking, boy?" "Just a cigar.... I'll miss you, too, Petey. Tell you what I'll do. I'll send you some post-cards from Panama."
Wipe dem goilish tears away, will yuh, Agnes, and bring us a little health-destroyer and a couple matches." Carl brought a whisky cocktail. "Where's de matches, you tissy-cat?" Carl wiped his hands on his apron and beamed: "Well, so the old soak is getting too fat and lazy to reach over on the bar and get his own! You'll last quick now!"
Every evening from eleven to midnight Petey McGuff sat at the round table in the mildewed corner at the end of the bar, drinking old-fashioned whisky cocktails made with Bourbon, playing Canfield, staring at the nude models pasted on the milky surface of an old mirror, and teasing Carl. "Here, boy, come 'ere an' wipe off de whisky you spilled.... Come on, you tissy-cat.
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