"
"It's a derned pity," said Mr. Pawkins; "that there boy, Julius Sneezer
Disgustus Quackenboss, ud be wuth heaps more'n he is, if his boss jest
had the right to lick him straight along."
"Who," shrieked Maguffin; "who'se yar Squackenbawsin' an' gibbin' nigger
lip ter? My name's Mortimah Magrudah Maguffin, an' what's yourn?
Pawkins! Oh massy! Pawkins, nex' thing ter punkins. I cud get er punkin,
an' cut a hole er two in it an' make a bettah face nor yourn, Mistah
Pawkins, candaberus, lantun jaw, down east, Yankee white tresh. What you
doin' roun' this house, anyway?"
"Arrah, hush now, childher!" said Mr. Terry, entering from the hall.
"The aivenin's the time to make up aall dishputes, an' quoiet aal yer
angry faylins afore yeez say yer worruds an' go to shlape, wid the howly
angels gyardin' yeez. Good aivenin', Corporal."
"Good evening, Sergeant-Major."
"Mr. Terry," asked Tryphosa, timidly, "will you play a game at Cities,
Rivers and Mountains? We were waiting for even numbers to begin." The
veteran, who knew the game, agreed. Gallantly, the gentlemen asked the
two ladies to choose sides, whereupon Tryphena selected Mr.
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