There we waited till Flannagan became fierce with the heat and the
impatience of him.
"Discretionary!" he says, striding around with his nostrils full of
wrath, and banging at doors. "Would they be boilin' us the night wid
the discreetness of 'em?"
With that there was an opening of a door, and there waddled in a
little fat mestizo, both shorter and fatter than seemed right or
natural. He wore red and yellow livery and shining buttons, and we
thought he was likely the official butler or door boy. He seemed to
have eaten too much, as a rule, and looked sleepy and in a bad temper.
"Boy" says Flannagan, striding up to him, "where's the misbegotten
and corrupt official of Disthressionary Regularities? Do we wait here
till the explosion of doom? Spheak, ye lump of butther!" he says. "Or
do we not?"
"Carambos!" says the extraordinary clothes, backing off and speaking
snappish. "If you don't like it, get out!"
"Carambos, is it?" says Flannagan, enraged and grabbing him by the
collar. "Impidence!" he says, "an' ye talk so to the Manager of the
Flannagan and Imparial!"
With that he gets him also by his new trousers and heaves him into
the corridor, where was a handsome half-caste Spanish woman, more
Spanish than Indian, who looked dignified and happy in a purple
dress.
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