ant to hurd your
veelings."

"You insulting w'etch!"

"Don'd get excided, mein friendt."

"Will you leave thith theat, thir?"

"Cerdinly I vill--ven I leaf der drain."

"I thall call the conductor!"

"Don'd vaste your preath--peckon to him."

"Thir, I would have you understand that my name ith Cholly Gwayson De
Smythe."

"Vell, I vos bleased to meed you. Anypody vould be pleased shust to dake
a look ad you."

"Thir!"

"My name vas Solomon Rosenbum, vid the accent on der bum. Shake handts
vid yourself."

By this time everybody in the car was staring at the Jew and the dudish
fellow beside whom Solomon had taken a seat. The latter was a youth of
uncertain age, with an insipid mustache, a sallow face, and spectacles
of colored glass, which seemed to indicate that he had weak eyes. He
was dressed, as far as possible, in imitation of an English tourist.

The Jew, who had given his name as "Solomon Rosenbum, vid der accent on
der bum," was a rather disreputable-looking man of about thirty, having
the appearance of the Jew peddler, and carrying a pack, which he had
stuffed down between his knees and the back of the next seat, thus
completely fencing in Cholly De Smythe.

"Will you wemove yourthelf fwom this theat?" squawked the dude, in a
flutter.

"Say, mein friendt, you vas nervous. Now, I dell you vat you do vor dat.
Shust dake a pottle of Snyde's Shain-Lighdning Nearf Regulardor. Id vill
simbly gost you von tollar a pottle, dree bottles vor dwo tollars. I haf
shust dree pottles left. Vill you dake 'em?"

Solomon began to untie his pack.

"Stop it!" squealed Cholly, in terror. "I don't want your nawsty stuff,
don't yer know!"

"Berhaps I know petter dan vat you do. I haf studied to pe a horse
toctor, und I make a sbecialty uf shack-asses."

"You wude thing!"

The other passengers in the car were enjoying all this, and the laughter
that had begun with the first passage between the two now threatened to
swell to a tumult.

"Uf one pottle don'd gure you, der dree pottles vill--or kill you, und
nopody vill mindt dot."

"Go'way!"

"Vill you half der dree pottles?"

"No, thir!"

"Veil, dake von uf dem ad sefenty-fife cends."

"Get out!"

"I alvays haf von brice vor all uf mine goots, und I nefer make a
bractice uf dakin' off a cend; but I see dat you vas on der verge uf
nerfus brosdration, und I vant to safe your life, so I vill sell you
von pottle vor a hellufer-tollar."

"I don't want it