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Updated: June 3, 2025
"Here now comes de hand, at last of de time, Johan," cried the old man. "It vill be that all can vel be done now. And it is goot that he is from mine own country. He cannot English speak, many vords; but dat is nothing; he can vork. I tolt you dere vould be mans come!" John looked scrutinizingly at the newcomer. The man's eyes fell. "What is your name?" said John. "Wilhelm Rütter," he answered.
"Oh, my dear vellow!" cried the Baron. "Do I hear zese kind of vords from you?" "If you starved a city-full of people, wouldn't you expect to hear the man with the biggest appetite cry loudest?" The Baron's face fell further and Essington laughed aloud. "Come, Baron, hang it! You of all people should be delighted to see me a fellow-member of respectable society.
That's a call to the man on point," exclaimed Collins, all alert at once. "Excuse me, mum. See you presently. Something's up. One of my mates is a-signalling me." "Mates, monsieur? Mates? Signalling? I shall not unnerstand the vords. But yes, vat shall that mean eh?" "Good Lord, don't bother me now! I I mean, wait a bit.
"Oo!" murmured Teresa; "I am charmed to meet Señor Dunnerwierst." Hans seemed speechless as he bowed and bowed, keeping his eyes on Teresa all the while. Finally he turned, seized Gallup by the shoulder, pulled him down, and hissed in his ear: "How dit you dood id? You vos so homely dot a clock coot stob you, und you haf marreed up py a curl dot vords coot not found my tongue for expressment."
"This," says the hairdresser, "is a reg'lar blight, and in it I perceive the hand of Fate. Farevell!" Vith these vords he rushes into the shop, breaks the dummy's nose vith a blow of his curlin'-irons, melts him down at the parlour fire, and never smiles artervards. 'The young lady, Mr. Weller? said the housekeeper.
Here shall I not have to be alvays ze Baron von Blitzenberg, oldest noble in Bavaria, hereditary carpet-beater to ze Court! I vill disguise and go mit old Bonker for a frolic!" "You touch my tenderest chord, Baron!" "Goot, goot, my friend!" cried the Baron, warming to his work of confession like a penitent whose absolution is promised in advance; "you speak ze vords I love to hear!
'I never heerd, mind you, or read of in story-books, nor see in picters, any angel in tights and gaiters not even in spectacles, as I remember, though that may ha' been done for anythin' I know to the contrairey but mark my vords, Job Trotter, he's a reg'lar thoroughbred angel for all that; and let me see the man as wenturs to tell me he knows a better vun. With this defiance, Mr.
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