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Updated: June 18, 2025
"Perhaps," says Eggy, blushin'. "I had promised a few of them to take some studio pictures if they would come up to-day." "And they didn't do a thing but bring all their friends," says I. "Must be fifty of them down there. You'll have a thick book before you get through." "I beg pardon," puts in Mr. Hubbard, leanin' forward int'rested, "but may I ask the nature of the book?"
Eggy dashes off, and after a lively jabberin' below comes back with his selected specimens. Not a one looks as though he'd been over more'n a year, and some are still wearin' the outlandish rigs they landed in. Then Eggy begins introducin' 'em. And, say, you'd hardly know him for the same bashful, wispy party that Swifty had dragged in a little while before.
He's a short, squatty, low-browed party with gold rings in his ears and a smallpox-pitted face. He gazes doubtful at Eggleston durin' the talk, and at the finish grins back at us. Likely he thought Eggy'd been makin' a comic speech. "An ingenious prophecy," says Mr. Hubbard; "but unfortunately all Italians are not Verdis." "Few have the chance to be," says Eggy.
"Oh, yes," says he. "Here you are, then, Eggy," says I, reachin' into a pigeonhole and producin' it. "What's your instrument of torture, the xylophone?" "I I beg pardon?" says he. "Come now," says I, "don't tell me you're a trombone fiend!" "Oh, I see," says he. "No, no, I I'm not a musician." "Shake, Eggy!" says I, reachin' out my hand impulsive.
And who causes all the strikes, is at the bottom of all labor disturbances? The foreign element. If I had my way, I'd call out the regular army and drive every last one of them into the sea." You'd most thought that would have squelched Eggy. I was lookin' for him to back through the door on his hands and knees.
Yonson bats his stupid eyes once or twice, and lets himself be pushed back. "Go on," says J. Q., scowlin'. "I suppose you'll produce next the grandfather of a genius who will head the National Pie Bureau of the next century?" "Not precisely," says Eggy, beckonin' up a black-haired, brown-eyed Polish Jewess. "A potential grandmother this time.
"I'll see you hanged first, Eggy my boy! Go I won't, until these ladies have had their hair dressed: didn't you yourself tell me that Miss Crump's was the most beautiful hair in Europe? And do you think that I'll go away without seeing it? No, here I stay." "You naughty wicked odious provoking man!" said Miss Crump.
"Oh, would you?" says Eggleston, real eager. "But but what are your views as to our treatment of aliens?" "My programme is quite simple," says Mr. Hubbard. "I would stop all immigration at once, absolutely. Then I would deport all persons of foreign birth who had not become citizens." Eggy gasped. "But but that would be unjust!" says he. "Why, it would be monstrous!
"If you please," says Eggy, runnin' his fingers through his beard nervous, "I could not agree to that. On the contrary, my theory is that we owe a great deal of our progress and our success to the foreign born." "Oh, indeed!" remarks Mr. Hubbard, cold and sharp. "And you mean to try to prove that in your book?" "Something like that," admits Eggy.
"I thought," I said, "and hoped that there might have been something in it about the effect the stuff had on Tom Kitterick. I have never been able to find out anything about that." "It didn't do much to Tom Kitterick," said Lalage. "He was just as turkey eggy afterward as he was before.
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