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Updated: May 16, 2025
Hildebrant's 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw leather martingale. Bill Watson came in first. "Vell," said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of the joke-maker, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?" "Er why, I think so," said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. "I think so, Mr. Hildebrant the one that lives the longest Is that right?"
I fear that I have overlooked hens in my researches and observations. As to their habits, their times and manner of laying, their many varieties and cross-breedings, their span of life, their " "Oh, don't make an Ibsen drama of it!" interrupted the young man, flippantly. "Riddles especially old Hildebrant's riddles don't have to be worked out seriously.
"I'll spiel it in about nine words," said the young man, with a deep sigh, "but I don't think you can help me any. Unless you're a peach at guessing it's back to the Bosphorus for you on your magic linoleum." "I work in Hildebrant's saddle and harness shop down in Grant Street. I've worked there five years. I get $18 a week. That's enough to marry on, ain't it? Well, I'm not going to get married.
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