“Can i speek a word with the futman?” says i, in my ingaugingist manner.
“i’m futman,” says he.
“Then the cook,” says i.
“We arn’t no cook,” says he.
“No cook!” says i, almose putrifide with surprise; “you must be jokin’”—
“Jokin’,” says he; “do you no who lives here?”
“Not exacly,” says i.
“Lord Milburn,” says he.
i thort i shud have dropt on the step, as a glimmerin’ of the doo shot aX my mine.
“Then you don’t want no howsmaid?” says i.