tell mr. pulitzer my yacht was lost at sea. jack laughs and tosses him his crutch. the dorm is now alive with waking boys -- yawning, stretching, pulling on pants, hitching up suspenders as they sing -- song: "carryin' the banner"
ah, stop your bawlin'
jack, this look like i'm fakin' it? he hobbles towards jack on one crutch.
the streets are fulla fakes these days -- it's hurtin' the rep of genuine articles like myself. i gotta find me a new sellin' spot, where they ain't used to seein' me. jack smiles; mush taps crutchy on the arm.  sings.
no rain -- partly cloudy, clearin' towards evenin'. who ya sellin' wit, jack?
stupid question.
yeah? how'd you like it if a crip cracked your head?
not wit you!
-- the delancey brothers!
you're gettin' the chance of a lifetime here -- you learn from jack, you learn from the best.
sure -- we got the right to take it in the t'roat!
hey, jack -- get a loada this!
hey, whattaya hangin' around here for? that dave up there? hiya, dave!
yeah.  hey, shoulda seen me in court today -- old judge movealong monahan hisself! took him two minutes to move me along to snyder for 'my own good.'
listen, jack.  truth is, i ain't walkin' so good. oscar and morris kinda worked me over a little.
i don't want nobody carryin' me -- never!
it ain't so bad here. get three squares, sorta, and there's some swell fellas.  they still talk about how jack rode outta here on that coach!
you already heard the story.
that's jack -- ! hey, he looks just like hisself! snyder looks at the picture: instant recognition.
him? nah.
i never seen the guy, honest. this brain of mine, always makin' mistakes. got a mind of its own. he hobbles out quickly. snyder looks at him, eyes narrowing.
snitched it offa snyder's plate when i was servin' him -- the biggest one! snyder was eatin' good tonight -- the stuff we don't never get? * patatas.  olives.  .  liver and bacon. sauerkraut.  guess what i done to his sauerkraut.
anudder three months, prob'ly. but you can't let 'em beat'cha, right, jack?
remember what i told ya -- first t'ing ya do in jail, you make friends with the rats, share what you got in common -- hiya, jack! my leg tells me the strike's over! *
ya orta seen it, jack -- he came chargin' into the refuge wavin' his walkin' stick like a sword and he's leadin' this army of lawyers and cops and snyder's hidin' in the patata bin --
who? your pal! him!
don't wanna alarm ya, jack, but what i hear, out west ain't like new york at all -- it's fulla bulls, for one t'ing -- not cops, neither, but big ugly animals with horns and --