Mr. Chester waved a much-worn tooth-brush in the air.
“Man wants but lil-lil-little here below,” he remarked.
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“You see,” explained Mr. Dudley Winthrop Chester, formerly Quinlan, as he stepped out into the night air with Mr. Mitts, “the scheme is bib-bib-busted here, but I’ve got confidence in it. It’s good—it’ll gig-gig-go. Chicago’s the pip-pip-place for me. I suppose if you flash up ‘amo, amas’ to a Chicago man, he thinks you’re Elihu Burritt, the learned bib-bib-blacksmith.”
“Aren’t you tired of this life of false pretences?” asked Mr. Mitts, sternly.
“You can bib-bib-bet I am,” responded Chester, frankly; “I haven’t said a cuss-word in six months. Did-did-did-damn—damn—damn—damn!” he vociferated into the calm air of night, by way of relieving his pent-up feelings. “How long is it, Dudley,” pursued the patient Mitts, “since your parents heard from you?”
“Two years, I gig-gig-guess,” said Chester. “By Jove,” he added, as his eye fell on the blue sign of a telegraph office, “did-did-damn if I don’t telegraph them right now.”
Mr. Mitts was deeply gratified. “That’s a good idea,” he said.