fry like a strombolist till he pays me fine fee. Ameal. Well, here’s lettering you erronymously anent other clerical fands allieged herewith. I wisht I wast be that dumb tyke and he’d wish it were — blessed be the naun. Mine kinder come, mine wohl be won. There is no secret, sir, she said. Whose head? Mutter snores? Deataceas! Whamow are alle her childer, the birthday gifts they dreamt they gabe her, the fine ooman, rouge to her pudor puflF, the lipalip one whose libe we drink at, how biff for her whacking. Herwho.^ Nowthen, leaving