Scuse me, guy. You tollerday donsk? N. you talkatiff Scowegian? you spigotty angliss? You Phonio Saxo? Nnnn. 'Tis clear all so. Tis a Jute. Let us swop hats
Jute— Are you Jeff?
Jute— You are not a jeffmute?
Mutt— No, only an utterer
Jute— What is the mutter with you?
Mutt— I became a stummer.
Jute— What turrurrurrurrible thing to because! How?
Mutt— Aput the buttle.
Jute— Whose Poddle? Wherein?
Mutt— The Inns of Dungtarf.
Jute— You are almost inedible to me. Become a little wiseable.
Jute— Let me cross your qualm with gilt. Here is coyne, a piece of oake.
Mutt— How I know it! It is him. He was poached on that eggtentical spot by the liveries. There where the missers mooney.
Jute— Simply because he dumptied the wholebarrow of rubbages on to soil?
Mutt— Just a puddingstone at a riverpool.
Jute— Lord a marshy! With what for a noise like?
Mutt— Somular to a bull in a Clompturf. I could snore with my owth by the neck I am sutton on O'Flynn.
Jute— Boiledoil for me if I can forestand you norse noise as you make out of it.
Mutt— Rest a while. Half a look onward you will see [...] Thousand & one livestories netherfallen here. They are tombed to the mound. This earth is not but brickdust. He who runes may read it. But speak siftly.
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