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Dix. Wa-a-1, I calculate we'll agree about that when you've settled.
Count. Settled ! Vere's your bill ?-(Dıx gives it to him.)-Eh! vat all dese scharge ? (Reads.) To six weeks board and lodgeeng, at tree dollare per veek-(you tell me two dollare ven I come !)-eighteen dollare !
To fuel during that time—(va-a-t dat !)—six dollare!
Thirty-six dollare ! Oh, c'est trop-dis is infamous. Ah, vat you call extrass, e_h_h? Vat you call sondrees?
Dix. Wa-a-l, I call sodgers for breakfast, extras,-and lunch and beer, extras,—and dinner after time, extras,—and horse-radish, and garding truck, and long sarce, extras,-and Welsh rabbit for supper, extras
Count. Dat extrass, e-h-h? Vell, vat sondrees ?,
Dix. Sundries ?-Wa-a-l, I calculate readin' my paper 's sundries—and another blanket's sundries—and gettin' your grate sot is—sundries-and
Count. And you tink I pay him, eh? Nevare!
Dix. Neöw, Jovanny, I must say it 's darned mean in you to grumble at my bill, considerin' you ’ve won so much from me at dominoes--darned mean !
Count. Begar, I vill not pay him. Peste !--Diable! —'tis von grand imposition.
Dix. You can't come that over me, Jovanny. You jest better say nothin' about it, and deown with your dust, or you 'll get into a peck o' troubles. You 've got to du it, Jovanny.
Count. But I have not de l'argent-I ’ave no moneys.
Dix. Wun’t du, mister. I've had some hard customers afore now—(winks at Count)—and some shockin' poor ; but none warn’t so dry but what the law could squeeze some mysture out on 'em.
Count. But, Monsieur Dees, I give you my parole d'honneur, the word of a gentleman, that you shall be paid to-morrow.
Dix. Can't wait, rayally neöw, Jovanny. Fact is, you 've dodged round that mast most too often. No, Jovanny; you don't leave this house without shellin' out the pewter. Count. Well, then, sign your bill, and I'll pay you.
But you von grand excessif
Disc (eagerly), Scoundrel! Did you say scoundrel, Jovanny ?
Count. No, sare; you yon grand impostor.
A MODEST WIT.-ANON.
A SUPERCILIOUS nabob of the east
Haughty, being great-purse-proud, being rich,
I have forgotten which—
Who went from England in his patron's suite,
A lad of decent parts, and good repute.
This youth had sense and spirit;
But yet, with all his sense,
One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,
His honor, proudly free, severely merry,
To crack a joke upon his secretary.
“ Young man,” he said, “ by what art, craft or trade,
Did your good father gain a livelihood ?"
THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.-ANON.
A man in many a country town we know,
Professing openly with death to wrestle;
Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle.
With all the love and kindness of a brother ;
Still they 're sworn friends with one another.
Or make a bill,
Or tell a twister.
In short, in reputation he was solus ;
His name was Bolus.
Which oftentimes will genius flatter, Read works of fancy, it is said,
And cultivated the belles lettres.
And why should this be thought so odd ?
Can't men have taste to cure a phthisic ? Of poetry, though patron god,
Apollo patronizes physic.
No opportunity he e'er let pass
Or rather like the lines in Hudibras.
'Tis simply honest dealing-not a crime: When patients swallow physic without reason.
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.
He wrote verse,
To be well shaken."
Upon his pad,
But that's of course-
With an apothecary upon his back?
Knocks of this kind
By fiddlers, and by opera singers;
One loud, and then a little one behind,
Out of their fingers.
Portending some disaster;
And not his master.
John shook his head. Indeed !-hum !-ha!-that's
odd! He took the draught ?" John gave a nod. "Well, how ?-what then? Speak out, you dunce !" “Why, then," says John, “we shook him once." 6. Shook him !-how ?!! Bolus stammer'd out.
“We jolted him about.” “ What! shake a patient, man !—a shake won't do." “ No, sir—and so we gave him two.'
6 Two shakes!
'Twould make the patient worse !" “ It did so, sir—and so a third we tried.”
Well, and what then ?"_" Then, sir, my master died !”
TRUTH IN PARENTHESIS.-HOOD.
I REALLY take it
(The wretch has come to dinner !)
What heads for painters' easels !