Page:Carroll - Phantasmagoria and other poems (1869).djvu/128

116 They vanish in tobacco smoke, Those visionary maids— I feel a sharp and sudden poke Between the shoulder-blades— "Why, Brown, my boy! You're growing stout!" (I told you he would find me out!)

"My growth is not your business, Sir!" "No more it is, my boy! But if it's yours, as I infer, Why, Brown, I give you joy! A man whose business prospers so Is just the sort of man to know!

"It's hardly safe, though, talking here— I'd best get out of reach: For such a weight as yours, I fear, Must shortly sink the beach!"— Insult me thus because I'm stout! I vow I'll go and call him out!