The Old gentleman was more cholerick. "Cuss your clumsiness," says
he, "can't you come to a graffick without punching your ugly hed Into
other people's stumucks?"

"I didn't go for to do it," sez I, "and jest put the Sadll on the
right hoss, mister," I continerred. "If this femail behind didn't
carry so much slack foresail, she wuddn't hev entangled my spars and
careened me over."

Arter this I would try no more of their all-fired corfy. Squire--
had had enough of the Sworrick, so we made tracks for the Ho-tell.

"Bring-up a quart of brandy," sez the Squire, "and a bilin o' lemons
and sugar. Mr. W.," sez he, "there's not much of me left. Let's
liquor up! Let's have a smoke and a cocktail." So we mixes, and
had an entertaining discorse on polite literatoor. "Dod-rabbit the
sworrick," says Squire. "Say no more about it. I was a fool, Mr
Ward, to prefare it to your amusin an inshstructive conversashun."

After a while we got cheerful and sung "ale Columby" (it's a fine
voice the Squire has for a doo-et). Respect for the soshul Borde
makes me now cave in and klose my commoonication. Squire -- is a
grate filantherpist, but he's not grate at stowing away his lick-er.
I tuk him to bed after the 3d tumbler, that the cuss of a british
Waiter might not see one of us free & enlightened citizens onable to
walk strate. He said it was a wet night, and demanded his umburella.
Likewise he wouldn't hev his boots off, for fere of catchin cold. I
put the candle in the wash-basan that the critter mightn't set
hisself on fire, and left him in bed with his umburella up, singing
"Ale columby."