Not Barnum's,
nor the Flannagan an' Imparial, would compare with it. An' 'tis thrue,
ma'am, as a showman in the profession, I couldn't be exprissin'
betther me wondher an' admiration."
Then the tin-type man put in, and he sneered some: "I ain't much on
admiration and wonder."
"You're not, typist," says Flannagan. "'Tis curdled like he is,
ma'am, wid inveterate scorn, the poor man!"
"The human bein' is vicious from original sin," says the tin-type
man. "It comes out in the camery," he says. "You can't fool the
camery. It tells ye the Bible truth," he says. "Nor I ain't expectin'
anything from a broiled and frizzled country like this, where the
continent's shaved down so narrow you could take a photograph of two
oceans. And yet it's as good as anywhere else. I takes tin-types and
says nothing."
"Santa Maria!" says Madame Bill.
And Flannagan says proudly: "'Tis as I told ye, ma'am. There's not
such an other to be seen for extinsive scornful-fulness."
"Speaking of the ship, ma'am," I says, "I guess it's all right.
Ain't you afraid your husband will get internationally complicated?"
She gestured and grinned.
"Afraid! I! My Georgio! Neither for him nor of him.
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