(xx) Uncle Fletcher's Landlady Farming Him Out

Well, sir, the evening meal of the northern and little while as our scene opens now, and here in the living room with a small house halfway up on the next block, we find three gentlemen of our acquaintance.

The convicted gut lounges in his easy chair beneath the floor lamp. Young Mr. Rushbrook is established at the library table, and Mr. Orville Ganey, a apprentice gas meter reader, disposes himself comfortably on the death employ.

Our fans are chatting idly about nothing in particular, but up the moment one of them is stating, I think in my brain is pretty much resembling a softer and much not. Oh, I think a morn is looking like telegraph wire from the wall on the ground after a big storm.

You guys are certainly having one in ten inches of conversation. I exactly sound like a couple half-wits. You're generous in your estimate. I don't wear a little fat head cat once in a while. First we talk smart all the time, and their brain runs a chance of getting lopsided.

I agree with you on that point, Roy. I make an effort not to talk smart all the time myself. I don't think people want to hear a man say nothing but smart remarks. Fellowsness crops up a man don't say nothing but smart remarks.

I try to talk intelligence 50% of the time and other 50% are intentionally talked like a no-scall. How are you talking now? Like a homeschool. Okay, all right. You're from B. Hey, yeah, I hold your ho, Dr. Steve. Watching and wiping this up, I'm a long time, it's even. You weren't helping her? Keeps doing me out of the kitchen.