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"I hab den, I hab hear someting." "What?" "Dat I doan know." "It's the frizzlin' o' those shark-steaks; or, maybe, some sea-bird squeaking up in the air." "No, neyder one nor todder. Hush! Massa Brace, I hab hear some soun' 'tirely diffrent, somethin' like de voice ob human man. You obsarb silence. Maybe we hear im agen."
"Take my advice an' tell 'em nothin'. Wait till they're frizzlin' in the Red Sea, an' I've worked some of the grease out of 'em. By that time, wot between prickly heat an' high livin', they'll be ready to kill any Gord's quantity of I-talians." "Italians!" snapped von Kerber irritably, "Why do you speak of Italians?" "It's your fairy-tale, mister, not mine.
An' I stares at the thing, an' I sez: 'That's either a purse o' money, or a journey with a coffin at the end' an' the thing burns an' shines like a reg'lar spark of old Nick's cookin' stove, an' though I pokes an' pokes it, it won't go out, but lies on the 'erth, frizzlin' all the time.
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