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Updated: May 19, 2025
With that he digs into a hip pocket and unlimbers a roll of corn-tinted kale the size of your wrist. Maybe they wa'n't all hundreds clear to the core, but that's what was on the outside. "Whiffo!" says I. "Excuse me for classin' you so near the bread line; but by your campin' in a loft, and the longshoreman's shirt, and so on " "Very natural, Son," he breaks in.
Look at her then, sailin' off to go up against a stiff-necked, cold-eyed Aunty, who's a believer in checkbook charity, and mighty little of that! And just so I won't feel out of it she tosses me a job that would keep a detective bureau and a board of pardons busy for a month. "Whiffo!" says I, gawpin' up the avenue after the cab. "And I pulled this down just by bein' halfway human!
And just for the fun of the thing I collected them twenty-eight pieces of yellow paper, carried 'em over to my lunch place, and spent the best part of my noon-hour piecin' 'em together. What I got was this, scribbled in lead pencil: Grebel out. Larkin melding. Teg morf rednu. "Whiffo!" thinks I. "What kind of a Peruvian dialect is this?" Course the names was plain enough.
"Do I understand," he goes on, "that one of my cards went with those roses?" "Yep," says I prompt. "Little idea of mine. I I wanted to see what would happen." "Really!" says he sarcastic. "Well, I trust that my part of the performance was quite satisfactory to you." And with that he wheels and marches off. "Whiffo!" says I, drawin' in a long breath. "But he is grouched for fair, ain't he!"
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