Pompey.
Hannibal, I hab de call on you. Now let us confabulate togedder like sensible people. Ober two hours ago, I see de mess’nger boy bring de telegram. It ware from Mr. Northlake’s banker, and it read: You made five hundred thousand dollars to-day on Lake Shore stock. Now you hab seen Mr. Northlake cast down, way down,—tremendously, moh dan usual, fo’ ’bout a month,—way down, ’cause he lose all his own and Miss Violet’s fortune speculatin’,—way down; but when he read dat, he smile like de little chile; and he say to me: Pompey, dere’ll be a surprise-party yere to-night. Spread de banquet fo’ de guests. And now we doin’ it, ain’t we?
Hannibal.
I’m glad ob dat, fo’ Miss Violet’s sake, and de tings she gibs me; but dis am de point I must determinate before de limbs work easy: Ware am de margin g’wone dat I don’t hab,—de one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven cents?
Pompey.
Dat, chile, am g’wone ware de weasel’s g’wone wid de egg.
Hannibal.
Dat am a big weasel to get away wid one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven cents. I’ll write my banker, shure, in de mornin’ ’bout de wrong p’ints he gibs me. Dat’s my p’intin’ ’pinion ’bout him. Maybe he’ll loan me it back again,—dat one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven cents.
[Exeunt.