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"I've had plans for Steve all along. He's doin' fust-rate in that broker's office, learnin' the trade. Next summer he'll have another whack at it and learn more. When he's out of college I'm goin' to turn over your dad's seat on the Stock Exchange to him. Not give it to him, you know not right off but let him try; and then, if he makes a good fist at it, he'll have it permanent.
"Maybe I'll git killed up yer in this Pangymonum," Jimmy reflected; "an' though I 'spose it don't make no difference whair you plant your bones, I don't want to grow up into ole pines. Good, big, preachin' kind of pines, that's a little above the world, an' says 'Holy, rolley, melancho-ly, mind your soul-y' I could go into their sap and shats fust-rate.
Looking the way he pointed Rudolf saw above the entrance to a theatre the blazing electric sign of its new play, "The Green Door." "I'm informed dat it's a fust-rate show, sah," said the negro. "De agent what represents it pussented me with a dollar, sah, to distribute a few of his cards along with de doctah's. May I offer you one of de doctah's cards, sah?"
"Fust-rate, thank yo'. Yo' am looking right smart, too," went on the colored man. And then he began to serve them with the best the place afforded. He loved dearly to talk, but thought the present no time for so doing. It was a happy family gathering, and all remained at the table a long time, the boys telling their different tales from beginning to end. Mr.
And they say Leander wrote his dad that he thought he was goin' to like soldierin' fust-rate, and Mrs. Sarah Mary Babbitt she told Melissa Busteed that her husband's language when he read that was somethin' sinful. She said she never was more thankful that they had lightnin' rods on the roof, 'cause such talk as that was enough to fetch down fire from heaven."
"Come, Willie," he said, "we must have a wash the fust thing, and then we must earn some money to buy our breakfast with." "Why, where can we wash?" asked Willie. "Oh, I know a fust-rate place," answered Rob. "I think it was just made for boys like you and me wot ain't got no 'ome." Willie placed his hand in his brother's, and off the two boys ran, until they reached Trafalgar Square.
Whereupon the little imp pushed his fat fist straight into my eye, to his father's intense satisfaction. Fust-rate little chap, said the papa. Chip of the old block. Regl'r little Johnny, you know.
George Goff, the sail-maker, said he "was a fust-rate feller;" and Larry O'Hale, the cook, declared, "he was a trump intirely, an' ought to have been born an Irishman."
"I start immediately. The day of my return is uncertain, but I'll write to you." Rubbing this out, Joe wrote: "You'll p'r'aps see my old 'ooman, sir. If you do, just give her my respects, an' say the last pair o' divin' drawers she knitted for me was fust-rate. Tightish, if anything, round the waist, but a bit o' rope-yarn putt that all right they're warm an' comfortable.
F'r my part, I ain't got no use fer anything thet wears skirts 'cept one er two, mebbe," he added reflectively. "Most men I kin git 'long with fust-rate; but ef a man ever gits in trouble, er begins cussin' an' acts ugly, it's 'cause some gal's rubbed him crossways the grain er stuck a knife in him an' twisted the blade so's ter speak." "You're an observant lad, I see."
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