I’ve got those pictures all in my pockets, you bet your life.
“Wot makes your pockets stick out so?” ast Lily, when I was a waiting a chance to slip out unbeknone.
“Oh, things,” sez I, an’ she laughed.
“I thought mebbe you’d got your books and cloathes packed up in ’em,” sez she, “to run away an’ be a Injun warryor.”
I didn’t let on anything, but ansered her:
“I’ll just go out in the backyard an’ play a spell.”
Well, I got to town, an’ had a lot of fun. I called on’ all the aboriginals of them fotografs.
“Hello, Georgie! Well agen?” said the first feller I stopped to see.
Oh, my! when I get big enuff I’ll hope my mustaches won’t be waxed like his’n! He’s in a store, an’ I got him to give me a nice cravat, an’ he ast me “Was my sisters well?” so I fished out his fotograf, and gave it to him.
It was the one that had “Conseated Fop!” writ on the back. The girls had drawed his mustaches out twict as long with a pencil, an’ made him smile all acrost his face. He got as red as fire, an’ then he skowled at me: