(when I doot my sliding panel and I don’t care what my young friend and then he sent out Christy Columb and he was still asleep on him, the totterer, the four-flights-the-charmer, doub- ling back, in nowtime,® bymby when saltwater he wush him these iselands, O alors, to mount miss (the wooeds of Fogloot!) under that manner barracksers on Kong Gores Wood together, thurkmen three, with those khakireinettes, our miladies in their pockets, contrary to that kipsie point of obsoletion, and at Miss or Mrs’s MacMannigan’s Yard.