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But people's ideas of humor differ in regard to shrewdness which "reminds me of a little story." Sitting in a New England country store one day I overheard the following dialogue between two brothers: "Say, Bill, wot you done with that air sorrel mare of yourn?" "Sold her," said William, with a smile of satisfaction. "Wot'd you git?" "Hund'd an' fifty dollars, cash deown!" "Show!

Evans, an adherent of the occult, vowed that he had been visited by some eternal being of the spirit world. Stumpy was profoundly interested. "Wot'd 'e say?" "Nothing much. Only that somethin' would portend for me to-morrow." "Oh, did 'e want a drink?" "Course not." "If 'e 'ad asked you for your rum ration, would you," anxiously, "'ave given it to 'im." "Couldn't: 'adn't any left."

"Wot'd they say ter yer? Wot'd yer tell 'em?" he asked fearfully. "I didn't tell them anything," Pee-wee said. "As long as the fellers got away they won't blame you. Anyway, if you'd have been there they'd have been caught, because you didn't know those detectives because they're strangers around here." "How'd you know them?" Keekie Joe inquired.

Me now," she applied to Miss Montaubyn, "if I took it up same as you wot'd come to a gal like me?" "Wot ud yer want ter come?" Dart saw that in her mind was an absolute lack of any premonition of obstacle. "Wot'd yer arst fer in yer own mind?" Glad reflected profoundly. "Polly," she said, "she wants to go 'ome to 'er mother an' to the country.

Wot'd I come to sea fer an' this 'ere go is the worst I ever knew a baoat no bigger'n a bally bath-tub, head seas, livin' gyles the clock 'round, wet food, wet clothes, wet bunks. Caold till, by cricky! I've lost the feel o' mee feet. An' wat for? For the bloomin' good chanst o' a slug in mee guts. That's wat for."

"What of it? Don't you learn well enough, over at the school?" "More dar like me. Wot'd I do in a place whar all de res' was w'ite?" "Well as anybody." "Wot'll my mudder say, w'en she gits de news? You isn't a-jokin', is you, Dab Kinzer?" "Joking? I guess not." "You's lit onto me powerful sudden 'bout dis. Yonder's Ford an' Frank a-comin'. Don't tell 'em. Not jes' yit." "They know all about it.

"Wot fer, Slimmy?" he inquired again, wiggling his cigarette butt on his tongue tip. "Wot'd he do dat fer?" "How de hell do youse suppose I knows!" demanded the Magpie, politely scornful. "Dat's his business dat ain't wot's worryin' me!" "No sure, it ain't!" admitted Larry the Bat ingratiatingly. "But go on, keep movin', Slimmy! Wot's he done wid de stuff?"

Why not?" "I aint a w'ite boy." "What of it? Don't you learn well enough over at the school?" "More dar like me. Wot'd I do in a place whar all de res' was w'ite?" "Well as anybody." "Wot'll my mudder say, w'en she gits de news? You isn't a jokin', is you, Dab Kinzer?" "Joking? I guess not." "You's lit on me powerful sudden, 'bout dis.

Wot'd the Pope do if he had to play the same tune over and over and over and over?... Mortar, John! And 'and me up a nice clean cutter. That's your quorlity, my son." And the Court rang musically to the destruction of a good brick. John who was only Mr. Bartlett's son for purposes of rhetoric slapped his cold unwholesome mortar-pudding with a spade; and ceded an instalment, presumably.

Wot are we fightin' for? Wot'd th' Belgiums hever do fer us? Wot? Wot'd th' Rooshians hever do fer us? Wot's th' good of th' Frenchies? Wot's th' good of hanybody but th' Henglish? Gawd lumme! I'm fed up." And yet this man had gone out at the beginning and would fight like the very devil, and I verily believe will be homesick for the trenches if he is alive when it is all over.