"But,
gents," he says, "you all know how I trys to please ye in the way of
raffles and such things, and how I throws in the belly and stomach
fixins. Now, brighten up, ye men of taste"--Mr. Brodereque laughs
satisfactorily as he surveys his crowd--"I'm going to do the thing
up brown for ye,--to give ye a chance for a bit of bright property
what ye don't get every day; can't scare up such property only once
in a while. It'll make ye old fellers wink, some"--Mr. O'Brodereque
winks at several aged gentlemen, whose grey hair is figurative in
the crowd--"think about being young again. And, my friends below
thirty-my young friends--ah, ye rascals! I thought I'd play the tune
on the right string!"--he laughs, and puts his finger to his mouth
quizzically--"I likes to suit ye, and please ye: own her up, now,--
don't I?"
"Hurrah! for Brod,--Brod's a trump!" again resounds from a dozen
voices.
They all agree to the remark that nobody can touch the great Mr.
O'Brodereque in getting up a nice bit of fun, amusing young men with
more money than mind, and being in the favour of aristocratic
gentlemen who think nothing of staking a couple of prime niggers on
a point of faro.
Mr. O'Brodereque has been interrupted; he begs his friends will, for
a moment, cease their compliments and allow him to proceed.
"Gentlemen!" he continues, "the gal's what ye don't get every day;
and she's as choice as she's young; and she's as handsome as she's
young; and for this delicious young crittur throws are only five
dollars a piece.
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