A man opposite me, who thot heed play smart, sent word to the
tavern-keeper that I was swollerin' his forks.

Up comes the tavern-keeper, and ketchin' holt of my cote coller, shaked
me out in the middle of the dinin'-room floor.

"What in thunder are you about?" says I.

"Old man," says he, "them forks cost $9.00 a dozen. How many have you
swallered?"

"Not a gol darned fork," hollered I as loud as I could screem. Gittin'
onto my feet, I pulled off my cote and vest, and if I didn't make the
fur fly, and give that 'ere tavern-keeper the nisest little polishin'
off mortal man ever become acquainted with, then I don't understand the
roodiments of the English prize ring.

At Central Park, that hily cultivated forrest, the sharpers tried to
chissel me.

Just as I approched the gate which leads into the Park, a fansy lookin'
feller with short hair and plad briches stopt me and says: "Unkle, you'r
fair."

"You're a man of excellent judgment," I replide; "I think I am pooty
good lookin' for a man of my years."

"You don't undertand me, sir," he agin said. "Come down with your
stamps."

"My which?" said I, turnin' a little red in the face.

"Your gate money," he replied, tryin' to shove me back. "We charge $1.00
for goin' in here."

"You do, do you?" said I, wavin' my umbreller over his head
threatenin' manner. "When our goverment resooms speshie payment agin
maybe I'le send you a silver dollar with a hole into it, and maybe I
won't; it will depend a good deal on the pertater crop."

I was very much agitated. Pullin' out my silver watch I says: "My sweet
sented Plumbob, if you don't histe your butes away from that gate in 2
seconds I'le bust your biler with this 'ere bunch of bones," and I
tickled the end of his probocis with my fist, as I gently rubbed it
under his smeller.

He saw heed caught a Tarter, in fact, a regular Tarter emetic, and he
slunk away rather sudden.

I had sent too many of such skinamelinks to the clay banks when I was
Gustice of the Peece to allow 'em to fool me much.

I visited WOOD'S Museum to see the wacks figgers and things.

The statutes of the 12 Apostles attracted my attention.

"And this," said a ministerial long-faced lookin' man, with a white
choker, "is the last supper.--What a sagacious eye has PETER got--How
doubtful THOMAS looks--MATTHEW is in deep thought, probly thinkin' of
the times he was a fisherman. What a _longin'_ look in that astoot
eye," said he, nudgin' me