"Yes, sir! I say that hat!"
"Down in front!" exclaimed Turtle; "can't see."
"That hat!" gasped the Squire again.
"He's gummin' you," roared Turtle; "can't cook eggs in a hat. Down in front!"
Squire Longbow was very much excited, and had turned very red in the face. He could not help but think what his first wife would say if she was there—what she would say if she saw that hat with eggs "a-bilin'" in it—but perhaps the showman was "a-tryin'" to scare him, as Turtle said—he would wait a little and watch him closely.
"And now," said the performer, "examine this egg—it is a real egg—and now you see me break it—and now it is broke—and now," cracking it apart with his thumb nails, and looking down into the Squire's hat—"there it goes!"
"Twenty-five dollars! twenty-five dollars for that!" ejaculated the Squire, filled with fury, and jumping towards the performer, with his fist doubled, and his teeth firm set. "You're a great scoundrel, sir—you borrow'd that hat, sir—you borrowed it of me, sir—it is my hat, sir, that you've got, sir—my name is Longbow, sir—Squire Longbow, sir—that's my beaver hat, sir—twenty years old, sir—cost ten dollars, sir!"
"And there goes another," continued the performer, amid the stamping and roars of the audience, popping another egg into the Squire's hat, in the coolest manner possible, disregarding the tempest around him.
"I call upon Mr. Turtle to witness!" continued the Squire; "I'll ish-er a warrant for you, sir—I'll have you up, sir—before me, sir—you can't pay me for that 'ere hat, sir—you'll be imprison'd—you'll go to jail, sir—you won't spile any more people's hats, sir—you won't bile eggs, arter this, sir—it's your last bilin', sir—"
By this time the smoke was rising out of the Squire's hat and curling away towards the ceiling, and the smell of cooked eggs was waxing strong in the nostrils, and the hat, so they all said, was "gone for sartin."