“Mother!” ses he “I’m ashamed of you. Can I beleeve me eers. Is it me own mother—the woman who gave me berth spaking? Do you achooly mane that you are inspired wid a dred that these essenshilly vulger fatheaded raskilly rich nayburs of ours may not call on us? What!” ses he, drowning the interrupting voyce of Mr. John, “Do you desire there acquaytinse?”
“Me brotyer” ses Mr. John gintly, “finds his vocatshun rooning from his finger tips to his tung. To him the mere fack of being rich is to be likewise a fool and nave.”
“I claim” ses Mr. James thoomping on the table “that a man cannot make a billion onestly. I agree wid me frind Andrew Carnegie, who denies he sed it, that its impossible.”
“What of those who inherit?” ses Mrs. Wolley.
“Poony-soled, puppy heded eediots. What rite I asks have they to kape the money stolen from the peeple by there fathers?”
Mr. Wolley put in a word here edgewise.
“It seems to me James” ses he “that you are wilfully departing from the mooted subject. I belave in dyagression—to a limited extint—and whin by gintle degrees it permits us to cum back to the subjeck under discushion.”
“Yes” ses Miss Claire, “we must get back to the lons. Its settled. James you will cut them at leest wanse a week.”
“Once a week! Lord God of Isreel!” grones Mr. James, “I’ll be a fissicle reck befure the summer wanes.”
“Next” ses Miss Claire, “Johnny you must take care of the horse.”