* * * * *
_Scarecrow (in somebody's cast-off dinner-jacket and somebody else's
abandoned hunting breeches.)_ Kyard of the races! Kyard of the races!
_Farmer._ Here y' are. How much?
_Scarecrow._ Wan shillin'-an'-sixpence, Sorr.
_Farmer._ There's "Price wan shillin'" printed on ut, ye blagyard.
_Scarecrow._ The sixpence is for the Government's little Intertainmints
Tax, Sorr.
_Farmer._ Oh, go to the divil!
_Scarecrow._ Shure an' I will if yer honour'll give me a letther of
inthroduction. We'll call ut a shillin', thin, and I'll sthand the loss
mesilf.
[_Farmer parts with the price and the Scarecrow dodges swiftly into the
crowd. The Farmer peruses the card and frowns in a puzzled way; then the
date catches his eye and he curses and tears the list to pieces._
_Farmer._ Drat take the little scut; he's sold me last year's kyard!
_Cattle-Dealer (shouting)._ Hi, sthop him there!
_Farmer._ Whist, let him go. Let him trap some others first the way I'll
not be the only mug on the market this day.
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