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"Nae doot," he said, "I hev put Mr Jackman in the best place of all, for, whativer way the deer come, they'll hev to pass close, either above or below him an' that's maybe as weel for him wi' his queer new-fashioned rifle; but at the heed o' the pass is the next best place.
"Fontaine." "It's a varry Frenchified name. I should think he'd be glad to get rid o' it. Where is he now? At Hallam?" "He is in t' Holy Land somewhere." "Is he a parson?" "No, he's a planter; and a bit o' a lawyer, too." "Whativer does he want in t' Holy Land, then?" "He's wi' a Bishop." "Ay? Then he's pious?" "For sure; he's a Methodist." "That's not bad. Squire Gregory was a Methodist.
Whin a sign iv th' effete aristocracy iv England done up sivral free-bor-rn Americans fr'm Boston in a fut r-race, me frind the Farthest North, he grabs his wan glass eye an' says he: 'Well r-run, Cambridge! he says; 'Well r-run, he says. An' 'Well r-run, whativer colledge ye're fr'm, says I, whin wan iv our la-ads jumped over a fence ahead iv some eager but consarvative English scholars."
"Whativer do we want wi' the loikes o' yo representin us!" shouted another man, pointing at Tressady. "Look at 'im; ee can't walk, ee can't; mus be druv, poor hinnercent! When did yo iver do a day's work, eh? Look at my 'ands! Them's the 'ands for honest men ain't they, you fellers?"
"Your father was a gr-reat man, the gamest officer that ever the Big Creek country saw. Me name is Patrick Ryan." "Glad to meet any friend of my father, Mr. Ryan." Roy Beaudry offered his hand. His fine eyes glowed. "Wait," warned the little cowpuncher grimly. "I'm no liar, whativer else I've been. Mebbe you'll be glad you've met me an' mebbe you won't. First off, I was no friend of your father.
"Nay, then, say raither to the dog that turned it," said Dick Varley. "But for Crusoe, that buck would ha' bin couched in the woods this night." "Oh! if it comes to that," retorted Joe, "I'd lay it to the door o' Fan, for if she'd niver bin born nother would Crusoe. But it's good an' tender meat, whativer ways ye got it. Howsiver, I've other things to talk about jist now.
He pays me aforehand; an' he pays me down for whativer a've getten for him; but that's but little; he's noane up t' his vittle, though a've made him some broth as good as a could make 'em. 'I wouldn't send him away till he was well again, if I were yo; but I think yo'd be better rid on him, said Sylvia. 'It would be different if yo'r brother were in Monkshaven. As she spoke she rose to go.
'How far do you make it, then? asked Leather, tucking in the beef. 'Why, from here to Hardington is about six, and from Hardington to Bewley, four ten in all, replied Sponge. 'You can stay at Bewley all night, and then it is but a few miles on in the morning. 'And whativer am I to do for clothin'? asked Leather, adding, 'I've nothin' with me nothin' nouther for oss nor man.
I make account of riches only for thee; that I may be able to get thee whativer thou's a fancy for, for either thysel', or thy mother. She lifted her pale face from her pillow, and put up her lips to kiss him for these words. Perhaps on that day Philip reached the zenith of his life's happiness. The first step in Philip's declension happened in this way.
Thin th' parlor cars ordhered be th' Rooshan admiral has not arrived an' wan iv th' Frinch gin'rals lost an omelette, or whativer 'tis they wear on their shouldhers, an' he won't budge till it can be replaced fr'm Pahrs.
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