“Very likely. I have often been there,” replied Bart, with the utmost gravity.
“Ditter—devil you have! And what did you—der—ditter—find there, my foxy young friend?”
“Nothing that I was looking for.”
“Der—what was that?”
“The meeting.”
“Der—what meeting?”
“The one I'd like to go to, may be.”
“You are a bright pup; but—der—don't spit this way; it might be der—ditter—dangerous business to me; for you must have been eating razors to-night.”
“No, I haven't; don't love 'em. But you haven't yet told me where the meeting is?”
“Ditter—look here, my little chap,” said Dunning, getting impatient and vexed that he could not decide whether the other was a knave, simpleton, or neither—“ditter—look here;—der—don't your folks want you? Hadn't you better run along now?”