“Shaw!” ses he, “Why theeres forty-two families on the Poynt.”
“The Poynt?”
“I tuk a bit of paper from Mr. John’s desk, and I penned the following warning in plane litters and langwidge.”
“Yes. They call this neck of land the Poynt” ses he “I suppose becorse its just a poynt of land running into the Sound.”
“Its a bloont poynt” ses I.
“It is” ses he, “but down at the ind of it, there is a very fine poynt of land. Me brother waggushly corls it ‘Rogues Poynt’” ses he.
“And why sor?”
“Haw, haw!” ses he, larfing into his napkin.
Mr. James cum sontering in joost thin in tinnis pants. He tramped acrost me imacklate floor, banged out a chare and doomped himself into it.