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I was already far away with my pitiless, heartbreaking "blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, pink trip slip for a three-cent fare; punch in the presence of the passenjare." I do not know what occurred during the other nine miles. However, all of a sudden Mr. laid his hand on my shoulder and shouted: "Oh, wake up! wake up! wake up! Don't sleep all day!
But now I remember, you haven't said a word for two hours. Come, come, out with something!" The Rev. Mr. turned a lack-lustre eye upon me, drew a deep sigh, and said, without animation, without apparent consciousness: "Punch, brothers, punch with care! Punch in the presence of the passenjare!" A pang shot through me as I said to myself, "Poor fellow, poor fellow! he has got it, now."
I did the best I could, but every solemn individual sentence was meshed and tangled and woven in and out with 'Punch, brothers, punch with care, punch in the presence of the passenjare. And the most distressing thing was that my delivery dropped into the undulating rhythm of those pulsing rhymes, and I could actually catch absent-minded people nodding time to the swing of it with their stupid heads.
I suppose so, I think so, I don't know! Oh, certainly I was there I was there! "'Oh, what a privilege! what a precious privilege! And his last words oh, tell me, tell me his last words! What did he say? "'He said he said oh, my head, my head, my head! He said he said he never said anything but Punch, punch, punch in the presence of the passenjare! Oh, leave me, madam!
All through breakfast they went waltzing through my brain; and when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I had eaten anything or not. I had carefully laid out my day's work the day before thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing. I went to my den to begin my deed of blood. I took up my pen, but all I could get it to say was, "Punch in the presence of the passenjare."
I returned home, and suffered all the afternoon; suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner; suffered, and cried, and jingled all through the evening; went to bed and rolled, tossed, and jingled right along, the same as ever; got up at midnight frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothing visible upon the whirling page except "Punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare."
In the name of all that is generous, leave me to my madness, my misery, my despair! a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three-cent fare endu rance can no fur ther go! PUNCH in the presence of the passenjare!" My friend's hopeless eyes rested upon mine a pregnant minute, and then he said impressively: "Mark, you do not say anything. You do not offer me any hope.
I wish I knew how many there are among them who are willing to talk about that episode and like to be reminded of the consequences that flowed from it. Will the reader please to cast his eye over the following lines, and see if he can discover anything harmful in them? Conductor, when you receive a fare, Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled and was distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings "Punch! oh, punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare!" Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tottering wreck, and went forth to fulfil an engagement with a valued friend, the Rev. Mr. , to walk to the Talcott Tower, ten miles distant.
A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare, Punch in the presence of the passenjare! Punch, brothers! punch with care! Punch in the presence of the passenjare! I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper, a little while ago, and read them a couple of times. They took instant and entire possession of me.
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