Vell, up I vips him in my arms, and carries him straight off home in a trice.
I did think I should get a glass of grog for that job, but, says he, "Von't you take a ice?"
"No, Sir," says I, walking off wery indignant, and looking jest as sour as sour crout,
"Ven I takes a drop o' liquor I al'ys has it 'varm vith'—I doesn't like 'cold vithout.'"
But it's no use talking, for talking only makes one more hungrier and more drier:
And the heat of argiment's wery unlike the heat of a good kitchen fire.
I'm as dry as an old boat, vot ain't good for nothink in life but to knock up and burn;
And so I sees plain enough suicide's the only side on vich I can turn.
Bless you, I'm as hollow as a drum, and as thin as any poor devil of a church mouse;
So here goes for the fatal plunge—what's a plunge more or less to a man as hasn't got a sous?