"You mean Rosalie, of gourse," he said, snapping the words like a mad dog.
"Yes, Rosalie," I said.
"Gaptain Branscombe," he said, his face convulsed with passion, "that gossumate liar and hybocrite has made such a thing impossible. Far rader would I lay me in the grave—far rader would I have wild horses on me trample—than that I should indermarry with a family and bossibly betaint my innocent kinder with the plood of so shogging and unprincibled a liar. A man so lost to shame, so beplunged in cowardice and deceit that he couldn't his own heads cut off, but must buy dem of others, and faunt himself a hero while honest worth bassed unnoticed and bushed aside."
"It was honest worth that chopped off the head of your father-in-law's aunt's son!" I said.
"Gaptain," he returned, "there are oggasions when in condrast to a liar—to a golossal liar—to one who has made a peeziness of systematic deception—a murderer is a shentlemans!"
"Oh, you villain baker!" cried Sasa, joining in. "You make tongafiti. You never want marry the girl at all. All the time you say something different. Oh, you bad mans, you break girls' hearts—and serve you right somebody cut your head off!"
"Wish they would," I said, out of all patience with the fellow. "First he can't marry Rosalie because her uncle's a murderer. Now he can't marry her because her uncle's a liar. Disprove that, and he'd dig up some fresh objection!"
"I lofe her! I lofe her!" protested Silver Tongue.
"Come, come," I said, "you aren't marrying the girl's adopted uncle."
"A traidor to my family? No, gaptain, dat is what I can never be," said Silver Tongue.