“Georgie, there's a man in the offis wot I sed was a red-hedded old snoozer wot ort to be run outer town. Tell him I've gone to Coney Ileland to fite a duhell with Sullivan, or say I'm out takin' my mornin' pistil practise. Tell him enything, only get schutt of him.”
I sez: “You becher life, I'll fix him.” So I went inter the sanktuary, like I own'd the hull bisness, and I seen his oner walk-in' up and down, swarin' to hisself, like he was repeetin' the responces in the 'Piscopal church.
Soon as he cot site of me, he sez:
“Young man, where am that red-hedded, shaller-braned, lantern-jawd, squint-eyed, crooked-knoes son of a ded beet? Show me him till I pulverise him so fine that his remanes wouldn't bring 5 cents if you was to sell em for pure superfosfated binary bone.”
“Wot did you remark?” sez I.
“Show me the insignificant littel puppy wot sed I was a red-hedded old snoozer,” sed he.
“Oh! you wish ter see the edittur. I'll call him,” sez I.
Then I went to the speakin tube wot goes up inter the composin-room, and sung out orful loud: