“Donner unt blitzen! Das ish von big sheat knife. Goot for nix. Das knife not coot preat, py Shoseph!”
“How did you break it?” asked the peddler, fitting the pieces of the knife together and taking a wire from his pocket. “This is a good knife, I reckon. You broke the rivet. Now look at me, and see how far we are in advance of you in the arts and sciences. I tell you, Hans Drinker, you don’t know any thing about these matters—blamed if you do.”
As he spoke, he took out a pair of pincers, riveted the blade in, pounded it, and held up the knife for inspection.
“Look at that, neow, Hans Drinker. Any one but a Dutchman would have done that long ago, instead of waiting for a poor fellow who sold you the knife at a sacrifice.”
“Vat ish dat, eh? I no care for dat? I says de knife vill not cut preat,” cried Hans.
“See here—where have you had this knife? You put it in hot water, I know. Tell the truth and shame the adversary—didn’t you, now?”
“Vell, I did; but dat no hurt.”
“All you know. Of course it hurts! What do you expect a knife to be that you can buy for a shilling, English money? It took the temper out of it, I allow.”
“Vat ish demper?”