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Updated: May 26, 2025
"I had not been sitting by the stove long until I noticed, in a show case, a trombone. I asked Larry to please let me see it. 'Oi'll lit ye say the insthrumint, said he, 'but pwhat's the good of it? Ye can't play the thromboon, can ye? Oi'm the only mon in this berg that can bloo that hairn. Oi'm a mimber of the bhrass band.
"Good-by yersilf," hanging up the receiver. "And the divvle fly away wid ye," grumbled O'Hagan. As he turned away from the instrument Maitland managed to produce a sound, something between a moan and a strangled cough. The old man whirled on his heel. "Pwhat's thot?" The next instant he was bending over Maitland, peering into the face drawn and disfigured by the gag. "The saints presarve us!
"They might raise a rescue party and follow us." "But they wouldn't frop any chost I mean chop any frost with us." "Pwhat's thot?" came suspiciously from the driver. "An' is it not softmores ye are yersilves?" "Of course we are," returned Harry, instantly. "Thin pwhat fer do ye yell fer 'Umpty-eight?" "Oh, it's a way we have.
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