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III. IN DIALECT"SEVENTY-NINE"(MR. INTERVIEWER INTERVIEWED)
Know me next time when you see me, won`t you, old smarty?
Oh, I mean YOU, old figger-head,--just the same party!
Take out your pensivil, d--n you; sharpen it, do!
Any complaints to make? Lots of `em--one of `em`s YOU. You! who are YOU, anyhow, goin` round in that sneakin` way?
Never in jail before, was you, old blatherskite, say?
Look at it; don`t it look pooty? Oh, grin, and be d--d to you, do!
But if I had you this side o` that gratin,` I`d just make it lively
for you. How did I get in here? Well what `ud you give to know?
`Twasn`t by sneakin` round where I hadn`t no call to go;
`Twasn`t by hangin` round a-spyin` unfortnet men.
Grin! but I`ll stop your jaw if ever you do that agen. Why don`t you say suthin, blast you? Speak your mind if you dare.
Ain`t I a bad lot, sonny? Say it, and call it square.
Hain`t got no tongue, hey, hev ye? Oh, guard! here`s a little swell
A cussin` and swearin` and yellin`, and bribin` me not to tell. There! I thought that `ud fetch ye! And you want to know my name?
"Seventy-nine" they call me, but that is their little game;
For I`m werry highly connected, as a gent, sir, can understand,
And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in the land. For `twas all, sir, a put-up job on a pore young man like me;
And the jury was bribed a puppos, and at furst they couldn`t agree;
And I sed to the judge, sez I,--Oh, grin! it`s all right, my son!
But you`re a werry lively young pup, and you ain`t to be played upon! Wot`s that you got?--tobacco? I`m cussed but I thought `twas a tract.
Thank ye! A chap t`other day--now, lookee, this is a fact--
Slings me a tract on the evils o` keepin` bad company,
As if all the saints was howlin` to stay here along o` we. No, I hain`t no complaints. Stop, yes; do you see that chap,--
Him standin` over there, a-hidin` his eyes in his cap?
Well, that man`s stumick is weak, and he can`t stand the pris`n fare;
For the coffee is just half beans, and the sugar it ain`t nowhere. Perhaps it`s his bringin` up; but he`s sickenin` day by day,
And he doesn`t take no food, and I`m seein` him waste away.
And it isn`t the thing to see; for, whatever he`s been and done,
Starvation isn`t the plan as he`s to be saved upon. For he cannot rough it like me; and he hasn`t the stamps, I guess,
To buy him his extry grub outside o` the pris`n mess.
And perhaps if a gent like you, with whom I`ve been sorter free,
Would--thank you! But, say! look here! Oh, blast it! don`t give it
to ME! Don`t you give it to me; now, don`t ye, don`t ye, DON`T!
You think it`s a put-up job; so I`ll thank ye, sir, if you won`t.
But hand him the stamps yourself: why, he isn`t even my pal;
And, if it`s a comfort to you, why, I don`t intend that he shall.
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