“Are you sure it was a black hat?”
“Bah! the wind has carried it away.”
“Pe gar! Monsieur Quack’bosh—votre chapeau grand—you great beeg ’at—est-il perdu?—is loss?—c’est vrai? Pardieu! les loups—ze wolfs have it carr’d avay—have it mange—eat? c’est vrai?”
“None o’ your gibberish, Frenchy. Have you tuk my hat?”
“Moi! votre chapeau grand! No, Monsieur Quack’bosh—vraiment je ne l’ai pas; pe gar, no!”
“Have you got it, Stanfield?” asked the botanist, addressing himself to a Kentucky backwoodsman of that name.
“Dang yar hat! What shed I do wi’ yar hat? I’ve got my own hat, and that’s hat enough for me.”
“Have you my hat, Bill Black?”
“No,” was the prompt reply; “I’ve got neery hat but my own, and that ain’t black, I reckon, ’cept on sich a night as this.”
“I tell you what, Lige, old fellow! you lost your hat while you were a ridin’ the mustang just now: the hoss kicked it off o’ your head.”