the follerin' him:

Wall Street is all a fleetin' sho',
From which lame ducks are driven,
"Up in a balloon they allers go,
To Tophet, not to Heaven."

Another little dodge of your'n, my misguided friends, is to keel off K.
VANDERBILT.

What did you do t'other day?

Why, when KERNELIUS was engaged in a friendly game of cards for _keeps_,
up at Saratogy, some poor deluded _money_-maniac telegrafs that the
Commodore had at last found his match, and had been gathered to his
fathers. While at the bottom of the dispatch was forged the name of my
friend, KISSLEBURGH, city editor of the _Troy Times_, who, up to the
present time, if this coot knows herself, hain't bin into the hiway
robbin' bizziness, not by a long shot. But, my friends and feller
citizens, old VAN is sharper that a two-edged gimlet.

When he lays down his wallet among a lot of other calf skins, like a
great sponge in a puddle of water, it sucks every square inch of legal
tender, which is in suckin' distance.

For a regler 40 hoss power suction, K. VANDERBILT is your man. I ones
thought I could never take a locker to this 'ere honest old heart, but
as I cast my gaze over this audience, and observe among the Bulls and
Bears, a cuple of Dears, I will retract that, payin' in the follerin'
_Jew de spree_: