Francis Bret Harte (Фрэнсис Брет Гарт)
”Seventy-Nine”
(MR. INTERVIEWER INTERVIEWED) Know me next time when you see me, won’t you, old smarty? Oh, I mean YOU, old figger-head,--just the same party! Take out your pensivil, d--n you; sharpen it, do! Any complaints to make? Lots of ’em--one of ’em’s YOU. You! who are YOU, anyhow, goin’ round in that sneakin’ way? Never in jail before, was you, old blatherskite, say? Look at it; don’t it look pooty? Oh, grin, and be d--d to you, do! But if I had you this side o’ that gratin,’ I’d just make it lively for you. How did I get in here? Well what ’ud you give to know? ’Twasn’t by sneakin’ round where I hadn’t no call to go; ’Twasn’t by hangin’ round a-spyin’ unfortnet men. Grin! but I’ll stop your jaw if ever you do that agen. Why don’t you say suthin, blast you? Speak your mind if you dare. Ain’t I a bad lot, sonny? Say it, and call it square. Hain’t got no tongue, hey, hev ye? Oh, guard! here’s a little swell A cussin’ and swearin’ and yellin’, and bribin’ me not to tell. There! I thought that ’ud fetch ye! And you want to know my name? ”Seventy-nine” they call me, but that is their little game; For I’m werry highly connected, as a gent, sir, can understand, And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in the land. For ’twas all, sir, a put-up job on a pore young man like me; And the jury was bribed a puppos, and at furst they couldn’t agree; And I sed to the judge, sez I,--Oh, grin! it’s all right, my son! But you’re a werry lively young pup, and you ain’t to be played upon! Wot’s that you got?--tobacco? I’m cussed but I thought ’twas a tract. Thank ye! A chap t’other day--now, lookee, this is a fact-- Slings me a tract on the evils o’ keepin’ bad company, As if all the saints was howlin’ to stay here along o’ we. No, I hain’t no complaints. Stop, yes; do you see that chap,-- Him standin’ over there, a-hidin’ his eyes in his cap? Well, that man’s stumick is weak, and he can’t stand the pris’n fare; For the coffee is just half beans, and the sugar it ain’t nowhere. Perhaps it’s his bringin’ up; but he’s sickenin’ day by day, And he doesn’t take no food, and I’m seein’ him waste away. And it isn’t the thing to see; for, whatever he’s been and done, Starvation isn’t the plan as he’s to be saved upon. For he cannot rough it like me; and he hasn’t the stamps, I guess, To buy him his extry grub outside o’ the pris’n mess. And perhaps if a gent like you, with whom I’ve been sorter free, Would--thank you! But, say! look here! Oh, blast it! don’t give it to ME! Don’t you give it to me; now, don’t ye, don’t ye, DON’T! You think it’s a put-up job; so I’ll thank ye, sir, if you won’t. But hand him the stamps yourself: why, he isn’t even my pal; And, if it’s a comfort to you, why, I don’t intend that he shall.
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