“Tut! tut! my little man—tut! tut!” I genially said.
“You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head.
If you go breaking Treaties thus, as though they were but eggs,
Either we’ll have to stretch your neck, or you to stretch your legs!
“Go home at once, my little man, or scimetar and Krupp
Will have to take a turn at you—and won’t they keep it up?
Don’t pull the chestnuts from the fire for Mister Romanoff.
Cut home, you little Bulgar Boy! Skedaddle, slope, be off!”
“Home?” chuckled he. “Oh, certainly, with willingness and joy!
This is my home, old Bubblyjock!”—a vulgar Bulgar Boy!