"No more, I zank you; I 'ave eat too moosh."
I know'd he was only sogerin' out of delixy. So I says as perlite as possible,—
"None of that, old fellur—catch hold. I fetched 'em for you, and I'm bound to see you eat 'em."
"Sare, you are too kind," said he; and he vent to vork again. Arter a spell, he stopped.
"Don't like 'em—hey?" says I, pretendin' to be mad.
"I sall prove ze contraire," said he, in a kind of die-away manner, and he went into 'em agin.
Presently, he gin over, and fell back on his piller murmurin'—
"Sare, you are too good."
I gin the balance to the leetle gal, and told her to come round in the mornin', and I'd fill her kittle for her, adding that her grandfather would be all straight in the mornin'.
Samivel! he vas all straight in the morning, but just as stiff as a cold poker. The last two or three dozen finished him; his digestion wasn't strong enough for 'em, and he know'd it, but he eat himself to death out of politeness. The French are certingly the perlitest people on the face of the yairth.