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Discourse t' us of Predistinashin, Spitzbairgen seaweed, the last novel, the siventh vile; of Chrisehinising the Patagonians on condition they are not to come here and Chrischinise the Whitechapelians; of the letter to the Times from the tinker wrecked at Timbuctoo; and the dear Professor's lecture on the probabeelity of snail-shells in the backyard of the moon: but don't ask us to know ourselves Ijjits!!"
Th' prisidint was slightly to th' left in th' long grass on his fifth, but, nawthin' daunted, he took a hoe an' was well out in siven. Both players were in th' first bunker in eight, th' sicrety iv war havin' flubbed his sixth an' bein' punished f'r overdarin' on th' siventh. Th' prisidint was first out iv th' bunker at a quarther past two, his opponent followin' at exactly three sixteen.
"Can you tell me where there's a dry-goods store in this man's town?" he asked. "I fell into this here Broadway and got kinda messed up." "Watchawant?" "Suit o' clothes." The traffic cop sized him up in one swift glance. "Siventh Avenue," he said, and pointed in that direction. Clay took his advice. He stopped in front of a store above which was the legend "I. Bernstein, Men's Garments."
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