“Look at hwat?” shouts out Larder. “There's none, Sir Jan, compared to ourrs.”
“Pardon me, I think that—”
“It is 'Bentley's Mislany' you mane?” says Ignatius, as sharp as a niddle.
“Why, no; but—”
“O thin, it's Co'burn, sure! and that divvle Thayodor—a pretty paper, sir, but light—thrashy, milk-and-wathery—not sthrong, like the Litherary Chran—good luck to it.”
“Why, Doctor Lander, I was going to tell at once the name of the periodical, it's FRASER'S MAGAZINE.”
“FRESER!” says the Doctor. “O thunder and turf!”
“FWASER!” says Bullwig. “O—ah—hum—haw—yes—no—why,—that is weally—no, weally, upon my weputation, I never before heard the name of the pewiodical. By the by, Sir John, what wemarkable good clawet this is; is it Lawose or Laff—?”
Laff, indeed! he cooden git beyond laff; and I'm blest if I could kip it neither,—for hearing him pretend ignurnts, and being behind the skreend, settlin somethink for the genlmn, I bust into such a raw of laffing as never was igseeded.
“Hullo!” says Bullwig, turning red. “Have I said anything impwobable, aw widiculous? for, weally, I never befaw wecollect to have heard in society such a twemendous peal of cachinnation—that which the twagic bard who fought at Mawathon has called an anewithmon gelasma.”