"Certainly not."
"Don't know where he's gone to?" growls the butcher.
"No more than the man in the moon!"
"Well, he ain't goin' to dodge me, in no sich a way," says the butcher. "I'll find him, if it costs me a bullock, you may tell him so!—for me!" growls the butcher.
"Tell him yourself, sir; I've nothing to do with the fellow, don't know him from Adam, as I've already told you," says Flannigan, closing the door—the "greasy citizen" walking down the steps muttering thoughts that breathe and words that burn!
Flannigan had just elevated himself upon the top of the centre table, to hang up Mrs. F.'s portrait upon the parlor wall, when another ring was heard of the bell. He called to his little daughter to open the door and see what was wanted.
"Is your fadder in, ah?"
"Yes, sir, I'll call him," says the child, but before she could reach the parlor, a burly Dutch baker marches in.
"Goot mornin', I bro't de pills in."
"Pills?" says Flannigan.