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The Chrononhotonthologus of a king came in the afternoon with a tail of a hundred vertebrae: he was a milder specimen than usual; he had neither Mambrino's helmet nor beadle's cloak, and perhaps his bashfulness in the presence of strangers arose from a consciousness that his head-gear and robes were not in keeping with his station.
"Eh! what dat? say dat again, sar," replied the woman. "Chrononhotonthologus." "Eh! dat real fine name for piccaninny," cried the woman, with delight in her countenance. "Many tanky, sar. Chroton-polygarse." "No, no," replied Newton, laughing; "Chrononho-tonthologus." "Es, hab now Hoten-tolyglass." "No, that's only part. Chronon-hoton-thologus." "I see very fine name Proton-choton-polly-glass."
"What do you think of Chrononhotonthologus?" said Newton to the woman. "Eh! what dat? say that again, sar," replied the woman. "Chrononhotonthologus." "Eh! dat real fine name for piccaninny," cried the woman, with delight in her countenance. "Many tanky, sar. Chroton polygarse." "No, no," replied Newton, laughing; "Chrononhotonthologus." "Es, hab um now Hoton tolyglass." "No, that's only part.
"Suppose we christen him Snub," replied Berecroft, winking at the rest. "Snob! What sort a name you call dat, sar?" replied the woman, tossing up her head. "Snob! no, sar, you 'front me very much. Snob not proper name." "Well, then Mr Forster," said the planter, "try if you can be more fortunate." "What do you think of Chrononhotonthologus?" said Newton to the woman.
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