“Then I must have enjoyed great wickedness to have wrote my lifetime so badly,” retort that great man.
“Yes, you have so,” say Angel. “You are therefore to die and go to boiling-point on this New Year day—come, please.”
“Thank you, Hon. Angel, one more chance for Obi Obi, be so kind!”
“Very well, once more chance,” say spirited Angel. “If you can wrote in these Book one page of neat-writing, Spencerian book-keep handwrite, no blotting-marks, then you may die and go Heaven.”
“Thank you to do!” say Obi Obi, & took fountind pen & wrote once more page in Book of Life. But when done—O such bad disgust! That page was all blotty-marked with woggly ink-splatter letters and orthography.
“There!” say Angel, “you have wrote new leaf on New Year day, and see! It is worse job as formerly. Come, please, and die.”
Obi Obi look at page and say this following philosophy:
“The reason why so I write it so bumly in Book of Life is not because of me, but because of bad pen and ink provided.”
Then he wake up with head-split and throat-crack symbols of drunkenness. He make groaning sound and O Yucha San, wife of his, approach with that delicious ice-water.
“It is Happy New Year!” she relate, making smiles.