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"Good evenin' to yer, matey! This 'ers's Bill Jones and 'is pal. 'Ow, I'll tyke the 'ighroad, and you'll tyke the laow road! and I'll be in Scotland afore yer'.... 'Ere, Sammie, me lad, come along o' me an' warm yer witals. I could drink the sea strite I could!" He heard the man in the doorway laugh, and then he beckoned to him to come along.
"Yes, and to wear two men's coats and trousers, and to take two men's bedses and the wery witals out of two men's bodies. D them!" Ontario, who understood something of his trade as an orator, stood with his hand still stretched out, waiting till this ebullition should be over. "No, my friend," said he, "we will not damn them. I for one will damn no man. I will simply rebel.
Let 'er name ring in your ears, an' thunder in your brain, and burn in your 'art, till it consooms your witals or your willany! Now, Jim," concluded the Bloater, rising and opening a large clasp-knife, "you go to the door, open it wide, an' stan' by to cut, and run. This gen'lm'n ain't to be trusted w'en free. Are you ready?" "Hall ready," replied Jim.
"Indeed," said Fred, as he continued to dress the bruised hand. "What does it feel like, Stubs?" "Feel like?" exclaimed the unhappy man, in a tone that told of anguish, "it feels like red-hot thunder rumblin' about inside o' me. Just as if a great conger eel was wallopin' about an' a-dinin' off my witals." "Horrible, but not incurable," remarked Fred.
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