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Hannah Stuart
Lady Eureka, v. 3 (of 3)
Lady Eureka, v. 3 (of 3)
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Excerpt:
“Oh, massa, I so bad!” exclaimed the fat cook, as he waddled up to the surgeon, with a most woeful expression of countenance.
“What’s the matter with you, Roly Poly?” inquired Dr. Tourniquet.
“Sich a debble ob a pain, massa,” continued the black.
“But where is it, man? where is it? Can’t do you any good till I know what’s the matter with you, don’t you see,” said the surgeon.
[2]
“Debble ob a pain, massa, in my tomack,” replied his patient, rubbing his huge hand over his stomach, and heaving the most despairing of sighs.
“Put out your tongue,” exclaimed the doctor.
The fat cook extended a pair of enormous jaws, and protruded something which resembled a scorched brick-bat.
“Ah! derangement of the digestive functions,” remarked the practitioner, after a brief inspection of the misshapen lump of flesh his patient had exhibited. “What have you been eating?”
“Eatin, massa?” repeated Roly Poly, looking most ludicrously pathetic, “can’t eat nutting, massa, to tink of. Loss nappetite ’pletely. Breakfast, me only eat pound and harp o’ beef—berry little lump o’ cold puddin big as my two fistes,”
“Oh, massa, I so bad!” exclaimed the fat cook, as he waddled up to the surgeon, with a most woeful expression of countenance.
“What’s the matter with you, Roly Poly?” inquired Dr. Tourniquet.
“Sich a debble ob a pain, massa,” continued the black.
“But where is it, man? where is it? Can’t do you any good till I know what’s the matter with you, don’t you see,” said the surgeon.
[2]
“Debble ob a pain, massa, in my tomack,” replied his patient, rubbing his huge hand over his stomach, and heaving the most despairing of sighs.
“Put out your tongue,” exclaimed the doctor.
The fat cook extended a pair of enormous jaws, and protruded something which resembled a scorched brick-bat.
“Ah! derangement of the digestive functions,” remarked the practitioner, after a brief inspection of the misshapen lump of flesh his patient had exhibited. “What have you been eating?”
“Eatin, massa?” repeated Roly Poly, looking most ludicrously pathetic, “can’t eat nutting, massa, to tink of. Loss nappetite ’pletely. Breakfast, me only eat pound and harp o’ beef—berry little lump o’ cold puddin big as my two fistes,”
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