"But diss yong man, he stand by der oldt fellow!" The streaming eyes blinked absurdly.
Behind him, with a whirring sound, a metallic voice assailed them in a gabble of words, at first husky and broken, then clear, nasal, a voice from neither Europe nor Asia, but America:-- "Then did I laff?
Ooh, aha-ha ha ha, Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I could not help but laffing, Ooh, aha-ha ..." From a throat of tin, it mocked them insanely with squealing, black-hearted guffaws.

Heywood sat smoking, with the countenance of a stoic; but when the laughter in the box was silent, he started abruptly.
"We're off, old chap," he announced.

"Bedtime.

Just came to see you were all up-standing.

Tough as ever?
Good! Don't let--er--anything carry you off." At the gate, Wutzler held aloft his glow-worm lantern.
"Dose fellows catch me ?" he mumbled, "Der plagues--dey will forget me.
All zo many shoots, _kugel_, der bullet,--'_gilt's mir, oder gilt es dir ?_' Men are dead in der Silk-Weafer Street.