Dr. Sevier stood sphinx-like, and once more Reisen went on.
“‘Yes, Mr. Richlun,’” still addressing the Doctor as though he were his book-keeper, “‘I yoost layin, on my pett effra nighdt—effra nighdt, vi-i-ite ava-a-ake! undt in apowdt a veek I make udt owdt ut layst tot you, Mr. Richlun,’—I lookt um shtraight in te eye, undt he lookt me shtraight te same,—‘tot, Mr. Richlun, you,’ sayss I, ‘not dtose fellehs fot pin py mo sindts more ass fife yearss, put you, Mr. Richlun, iss teh mayn!—teh mayn fot I—kin trust!’” The baker’s middle parts bent out and his arms were drawn akimbo. Thus for ten seconds.
“‘Undt now, Mr. Richlun, do you kot teh shtrengdt for to shtart a noo pissness?’—Pecause, Toctor, udt pin seem to me Mr. Richlun kitten more undt more shecklun, undt toandt take tot meticine fot you kif um (ovver he sayss he toos). So ten he sayss to me, ‘Mister Reisen, I am yoost so sollut undt shtrong like a pilly-coat! Fot is teh noo pissness?’—‘Mr. Richlun,’ sayss I, ‘ve goin’ to make pettent prate!’”
“What?” asked the Doctor, frowning with impatience and venturing to interrupt at last.
“Pet-tent prate!”
The listener frowned heavier and shook his head.
“Pettent prate!”
“Oh! patent bread; yes. Well?”
“Yes,” said Reisen, “prate mate mit a mutcheen; mit copponic-essut kass into udt ploat pefore udt is paked. I pought teh pettent tiss mawning fun a yendleman in Garontelet shtreedt, alretty, naympt Kknox.”
“And what have I to do with all this?” asked the Doctor, consulting his watch, as he had already done twice before.