“Hivins!” says Flannagan. “But I'm thinkin', wid great admiration for yourself, ma'am, I'm thinkin' this country wid its interestin' people in pajamies, its scenery resemblin'a lobster salad, an' government illuminated by figures of spache an' inspired wid seltzer-wather—I'm thinkin' it would make its fortune, sure, by exhibition of itself in the capitals of the worrld, ma'am. Not Barnum's, nor the Flannagan an' Imparial, would compare with it. An' 'tis thrue, ma'am, as a showman in the profession, I couldn't be exprissin' betther me wondher an' admiration.”
Then the tin-type man put in, and he sneered some: “I ain't much on admiration and wonder.”
“You're not, typist,” says Flannagan. “'Tis curdled like he is, ma'am, wid inveterate scorn, the poor man!”
“The human bein' is vicious from original sin,” says the tin-type man. “It comes out in the camery,” he says. “You can't fool the camery. It tells ye the Bible truth,” he says. “Nor I ain't expectin' anything from a broiled and frizzled country like this, where the continent's shaved down so narrow you could take a photograph of two oceans. And yet it's as good as anywhere else. I takes tin-types and says nothing.”
“Santa Maria!” says Madame Bill.
And Flannagan says proudly: “'Tis as I told ye, ma'am. There's not such an other to be seen for extinsive scornful-fulness.”
“Speaking of the ship, ma'am,” I says, “I guess it's all right. Ain't you afraid your husband will get internationally complicated?”
She gestured and grinned.
“Afraid! I! My Georgio! Neither for him nor of him. Moreover, I think,”—pausing with her cheroot in the air—“that he has heard from below, and is now outside the door. He pants. He has climbed the stairs in haste, the little pig. Ho, ho! haw, haw!”
At that the Minister of Military and Internal Peace burst in, with the sweat of his fatness on his face, his teeth sticking out, and his features expressing intentions.