“Well, dear M. Schmucke, and how is our dear, adored patient?” asked La Cibot, as she came into the room.
“Fery pad; Bons haf peen vandering all der night.”
“Then, what did he say?”
“Chust nonsense. He vould dot I haf all his fortune, on kondition dot I sell nodings.—Den he cried! Boor mann! It made me ver’ sad.”
“Never mind, honey,” returned the portress. “I have kept you waiting for your breakfast; it is nine o’clock and past; but don’t scold me. I have business on hand, you see, business of yours. Here are we without any money, and I have been out to get some.”
“Vere?” asked Schmucke.
“Of my uncle.”
“Onkel?”
“Up the spout.”
“Shpout?”