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Carmyle, who had been irritably waving aside the servitor's light-hearted advice at the Hotel Splendide the waiters never bent over you and breathed cordial suggestions down the side of your face gave his order crisply in the Anglo-Gallic dialect of the travelling Briton. The waiter remarked, "Boum!" in a pleased sort of way, and vanished. "Nice old man!" said Sally.
"Oh! it's Uncle Peter Ilitsch!" exclaimed Ivanoff gleefully. "Yes! that's he!" replied the figure, in a deep, resonant voice. Yourii remembered that Ivanoff's uncle was an old, drunken church chorister. He had a grey moustache like one of the soldiers at the time of Nicholas the First, and his shabby black coat had a most unpleasant smell. "Boum! Boum!"
Fzzz! Boum! Eh?" The politician responded to Toby's extravagantly friendly laughter with some mechanical cachinnations which, like an obliging salesman, he turned on and off with no effort. "Not by a dern sight!" he answered. "The campaign ain't begun yet." "Champagne?" inquired Tobigli politely. "Campaign, campaign," explained Pixley. "Not much champagne in yours!" he chuckled beneath his breath.
"And how much shall we say for this marvel, gentlemen? Twopence? No. Nothing of the sort. All that is left in stock after supplying the Great Mogul. All the crowned heads of Europe, including the Gr-r-rand Duke of Baden, have been anxious to get a sight of it. Walk up! walk up! gentlemen! Pay at the desk as you go in! Strike up the music there! Brooum, la, la, trinn! la, la, boum! boum!
When once he begins, there's no possibility of checking or stopping him. On, on he goes. Farewell to the rest; he insists on pouring it all forth to the very last sentence. Gabble, gabble, gabble; chatter, chatter, chatter; pouf, pouf, pouf; boum, boum, boum; he runs ahead eternally in one long discordant sing-song monotone.
The McDaubrecq's fling!... The turkey trot!... And the bunny hug!... And the grizzly bear!... The Tyrolean dance: tra-la-liety!... Allons, enfants de la partie!... Zing, boum, boum! Zing, boum, boum!..."
Hark ye, Ors' Anton'! when I heard the first piff, piff, says I to myself: 'Dash it, they're murdering my lieutenant! Then I heard boum, boum. 'Ha, ha! says I, 'that's the English gun beginning to talk he's firing back. But what on earth do you want with me, Brusco?" The dog guided him to the other field.
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