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Updated: May 18, 2025
At the gate, Wutzler held aloft his glow-worm lantern. "Dose fellows catch me?" he mumbled, "Der plagues dey will forget me. All zo many shoots, kugel, der bullet, 'gilt's mir, oder gilt es dir? Men are dead in der Silk-Weafer Street. Dey haf hong up nets, and dorns, to keep out der plague's-goblins off deir house. Listen, now, dey beat gongs! But we are white men. You you tell me zo, to-night!"
She's always afraid folks'll notice the gilt's wearin' off. Pass it over quick, and let me cover it with some more pie." "Yes, and have some more tea," urged Miss Abbie. "You mustn't pay attention to what he says, Mr. Graves," she went on. "Some day he'll tell the truth by accident, and then I'll know it's time to send for the doctor."
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