He has died and come alive again thirteen times, and traveled under a new name every time: Smith, Jones, Robinson, Jackson, Peters, Haskins, Merlin--a new alias every time he turns up.

I knew him in Egypt three hundred years ago; I knew him in India five hundred years ago--he is always blethering around in my way, everywhere I go; he makes me tired.

He don't amount to shucks, as a magician; knows some of the old common tricks, but has never got beyond the rudiments, and never will.
He is well enough for the provinces--one-night stands and that sort of thing, you know--but dear me, _he_ oughtn't to set up for an expert--anyway not where there's a real artist.

Now look here, Clarence, I am going to stand your friend, right along, and in return you must be mine.

I want you to do me a favor.