“Get up and dress yourself and get out of here!” said his employer.
“The jig, then,” inquired Mr. Dudley Chester, slowly rising, “is did-did-definitely up? No more Fif-Fif-French lessons? No? Well,” he continued, as he leisurely pulled on his trousers, “that’s the kik-kik-cussèd inconsistency. The j-j-jig is up for the gentleman; but when you thought I was a did-did-damn Mick, I was right in the bib-bib-bosom of the blooming family.”
“Here are your week’s wages,” said Mr. Copernicus, trembling with rage. “Now, get out!”
“Not exactly,” responded the unperturbed sinner: “a ticket to Chicago!”
“I’m afraid you had best yield,” whispered Mr. Mitts. “Your family, you know. It wouldn’t do to have this get out.”
Mr. Copernicus had a minute of purple rage. Then he handed the money to Mr. Mitts.
“Put him on the train,” he said. “There’s one at twelve.”
“We can make it if we hurry,” said the obliging Mr. Mitts. “Where’s your lodging-house, Chester?”
Chester opened his eyes inquiringly. “Why, this is all I’ve got,” he said; “what’s the mim-mim-matter with this?”
“But your—your luggage?” inquired Mr. Mitts.