"I've got my tooth full of that cold puddin'," said I, pintin' to the
dish; "please bring me an individual toothpick, so I can dig it out."
He vanished. I coulden't wait, so I undertook to dig it out with my
fork.

A man opposite me, who thot heed play smart, sent word to the
tavern-keeper that I was swollerin' his forks.

Up comes the tavern-keeper, and ketchin' holt of my cote coller, shaked
me out in the middle of the dinin'-room floor.

"What in thunder are you about?" says I.

"Old man," says he, "them forks cost $9.00 a dozen. How many have you
swallered?"

"Not a gol darned fork," hollered I as loud as I could screem. Gittin'
onto my feet, I pulled off my cote and vest, and if I didn't make the
fur fly, and give that 'ere tavern-keeper the nisest little polishin'
off mortal man ever become acquainted with, then I don't understand the
roodiments of the English prize ring.

At Central Park, that hily cultivated forrest, the sharpers tried to
chissel me.

Just as I approched the gate which leads into the Park, a fansy lookin'
feller with short hair and plad briches stopt me and says: "Unkle, you'r
fair."