'Who told you that?' asked Martin, sternly.
'A military officer,' said Mark.
'Confound you for a ridiculous fellow!' cried Martin, laughing heartily
in spite of himself. 'What military officer? You know they spring up in
every field.'
'As thick as scarecrows in England, sir,' interposed Mark, 'which is a
sort of milita themselves, being entirely coat and wescoat, with a stick
inside. Ha, ha!--Don't mind me, sir; it's my way sometimes. I can't help
being jolly. Why it was one of them inwading conquerors at Pawkins's, as
told me. "Am I rightly informed," he says--not exactly through his nose,
but as if he'd got a stoppage in it, very high up--"that you're a-going
to the Walley of Eden?" "I heard some talk on it," I told him. "Oh!"
says he, "if you should ever happen to go to bed there--you MAY, you
know," he says, "in course of time as civilisation progresses--don't
forget to take a axe with you." I looks at him tolerable hard. "Fleas?"
says I. "And more," says he. "Wampires?" says I. "And more," says he.
"Musquitoes, perhaps?" says I. "And more," says he. "What more?" says
I.
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