"My dear feller, make me some more, only mind--be sure you sell
these to some genteel old feller."

I like to saunter thro' Regent Street. The shops are pretty, and
it does the old man's hart good to see the troops of fine healthy
girls which one may always see there at certain hours in the
afternoon, who don't spile their beauty by devourin cakes and
sugar things, as too many of the American and French lasses do.
It's a mistake about everybody being out of town, I guess.
Regent Street is full. I'm here; and as I said before, I come of
a very clever fam'ly.

As I was walkin along, amoosin myself by stickin my penknife into
the calves of the footmen who stood waitin by the swell-coaches
(not one of whom howled with angwish), I was accosted by a man of
about thirty-five summers, who said, "I have seen that face
somewheres afore!"

He was a little shabby in his wearin apparil. His coat was one
of those black, shiny garments, which you can always tell have
been burnished by adversity; but he was very gentlemanly.

"Was it in the Crimea, comrade? Yes, it was. It was at the
stormin of Sebastopol, where I had a narrow escape from death,
that we met."

I said, "No, I wasn't at Sebastopol; I escaped a fatal wound by
not bein there. It was a healthy old fortress," I added.

"It was. But it fell. It came down with a crash."