“I never,” says Rameses III. “In the fust place, I never had none, and what a feller hain’t got, he can’t give.”
“He kin make ’em,” says Naboth.
“I wouldn’t know how to make them things he’s sick with.”
“You don’t have to know how to make ’em.”
“Now you talk sense, Naboth. Stick to facts. Don’t git me riled. Take warnin’ now—don’t git me riled.”
“Listen here,” says Naboth, “what is this here appendy-sidus, anyhow. D’you know?”
“Hain’t got the faintest idee.”
“It resembles stummick ache, only it hain’t stummick ache, but worse and lots more of it. It’s kind of related to stummick ache, sort of like a cousin by marriage, or some sich relationship, and the place where it hurts most is right under your belt. If you don’t git it cut out and pickled in alcohol, why, you die. That’s what that there appendy-siduses is. Clear to you now, hain’t it?”
“Calc’late so,” says Rameses III, “but what’s eatin’ me is how you come to figger I give ’em or it or whichever ’tis, to Mr. Topper.”
“Hain’t I jest told you it was kind of stummick trouble?”