“Oh, surely you poundt to a-seedt udt. A uckly little prown dting”—
“But cook well,” said Narcisse.
“Yayss,” drawled the baker. It was a fact that he had to admit.
“An’ good flou’,” persisted the Creole.
“Yayss,” said the smiling manufacturer. He could not deny that either.
“An’ honness weight!” said Narcisse, planting his empty cup in his saucer, with the energy of his asservation; “an’, Mr. Bison, thass a ve’y seldom thing.”
“Yayss,” assented Reisen, “ovver tat prate is mighdy dtry, undt shtickin’ in ten dtroat.”
“No, seh!” said the flatterer, with a generous smile. “Egscuse me—I diffeh fum you. ’Tis a beaucheouz bwead. Yesseh. And eve’y loaf got the name beaucheouzly pwint on the top, with ‘Patent’—sich an’ sich a time. ’Tis the tooth, Mr. Bison, I’m boun’ to congwatulate you on that bwead.”
“O-o-oh! tat iss not mine prate,” exclaimed the baker. “Tat iss not fun mine etsteplitchmendt. Oh, no! Tatt iss te prate—I’m yoost dtellin’ you—tat iss te prate fun tat fellah py teh Sunk-Mary’s Morrikit-house! Tat’s teh ‘shteam prate’. I to-undt know for vot effrapotty puys tat prate annahow! Ovver you yoost vait dtill you see mine prate!”
“Mr. Bison,” said Narcisse, “Mr. Bison,”—he had been trying to stop him and get in a word of his own, but could not,—“I don’t know if you—Mr.—Mr. Bison, in fact, you din unde’stood me. Can that be poss’ble that you din notiz that I was speaking in my i’ony about that bwead? Why, of co’se! Thass juz my i’onious cuztom, Mr. Bison. Thass one thing I dunno if you ’ave notiz about that ‘steam bwead,’ Mr. Bison, but with me that bwead always stick in my th’oat; an’ yet I kin swallow mose anything, in fact. No, Mr. Bison, yo’ bwead is deztyned to be the bwead; and I tell you how ’tis with me, I juz gladly eat yo’ bwead eve’y time I kin git it! Mr. Bison, in fact you don’t know me ve’y intimitly, but you will oblige me ve’y much indeed to baw me five dollahs till tomaw—save me fum d’awing a check!”