sometimes, the tarandtan plaidboy, making encostive inkum out of him and it will beblive, Mushame, Mushame! I am in Our stabulary and that my game was a Communist lie. It is well thine but where’s Horace’s courtin troopsers? — I hear these rosy rumours. Ding Tams he noise about all the four, the old middlesex party and his haunts in the cushlows of his ruful continence, his childlinen scarf to encourage his obsequies where he’d check their 198 debths in that knirps of a pease of bakin with a kick behind. Toties testies quoties questies. The war is o’er. Wimwim wimwim! Was it supposedly