I am
_shem_ of you. I ham ze servan' of ze _publique_. Zese _citoyens_ goin'
to wickwest Jean Poquelin to give to the Ursuline' two hondred fifty
dolla'"--
"_He quoi_!" cried a listener, "_Cinq cent piastres, oui_!"
"_Oui_!" said Bienvenu, "and if he wiffuse we make him some lit'
_musique_; ta-ra ta!" He hoisted a merry hand and foot, then frowning,
added: "Old Poquelin got no bizniz dhink s'much w'isky."
"But, gentlemen," said little White, around whom a circle had gathered,
"the old man is very sick."
"My faith!" cried a tiny Creole, "we did not make him to be sick. W'en
we have say we going make _le charivari_, do you want that we hall tell
a lie? My faith! 'sfools!"
"But you can shivaree somebody else," said desperate little White.
"_Oui_" cried Bienvenu, "_et chahivahi_ Jean-ah Poquelin tomo'w!"
"Let us go to Madame Schneider!" cried two or three, and amid huzzas and
confused cries, among which was heard a stentorian Celtic call for
drinks, the crowd again began to move.
"_Cent piastres pour l'hopital de charite_!"
"Hurrah!"
"One hongred dolla' for Charity Hospital!"
"Hurrah!"
"Whang!" went a tin pan, the crowd yelled, and Pandemonium gaped again.
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