“Oh, no,” said I, “Minister is a mere child.”
“True, true, my brother,” said he, “he is a good worthy man, but a mere child, as you say. Is it an affair of the heart, Sam?”
“Oh, no,” sais I, “I wish it was, for I don’t think I shall ever die of a broken heart for any one, it don’t pay.”
“Is it a pecuniary affair?”
“No, no, if it was it might be borne, an artful dodge, a good spekelation, or a regular burst would soon cure that.”
“I hope it ain’t an affair of law,” said he, lookin’ frightened to death, as if I had done something dreadful bad.
“No, I wish it was, for a misnomer, an alibi, a nonjoinder, a demurrer, a nonsuit, a freemason or a know-nothin’ sign to a juror, a temperance wink, or an orange nod to a partisan judge, or some cussed quirk or quibble or another, would carry me through it. No, it ain’t that.”
“What is it then?”
“Why,” sais I, a bustin’ out a larfin, “I am most dead sometimes with the jumpin’ toothache.”
“Well, well,” said he, “I never was sold so before, I vow; I cave in, I holler, and will stand treat.”