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(Earnestly.) Once I was in the employ of Mr J. H. MentonMenton, [sic] solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor’s Walk. Now I am defunct, the wall of the heart hypertrophied. Hard lines. The poor wife was awfully cut up. How is she bearing it? Keep her off that bottle of sherry. (He looks round him.) A lamp. I must satisfy an animal need. That buttermilk didn’t agree with me.

(Yawns, then chants with a hoarse croak.) Namine. Jacobs Vobiscuits. Amen.

(Foghorns stormily through his megaphone.) Dignam, Patrick T, deceased.

(With pricked up ears, winces.) Overtones. (He wriggles forward, places an ear to the ground.) My master’s voice!

Burial docket letter number U. P. Eightyfive thousand. Field seventeen. House of Keys, Plot, one hundred and one.

Pray for the repose of his soul.