D'Artagnan, the King Maker — page 205: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

192 The Royal Proclamation. “You are a miser, and Satan chooses the miser’s chest for ‘his bed.” “Ts that so? Then I hope so to fill it that he will be unable to squeeze in!” “All the neighbors told me they were going.” “Where? To Satan’s bed?” “To the mint, noodle!” “The hour hand waits for the minute hand to thick sixty before it strikes.” “If I were to imitate you in dawdling, Tomas, I should be at the end of the tail, like the tuft on the cow’s, and all would have obliged the king before me.” “The tail? The mint will have no end of a tail—tke the little pig called the cavy, out in Guinea! His majesty will get as much Guinea gold out of us as out of so many cavies! on the faith of a draper, whose far-famed sign is the Colchian Ram!” “’Mas, you have a poor spirit, for a true Lisbonite! after fifteen years having the honor to dwell in this city of the Leal! I tell you, shortcoming fellow-townsman, that our friends will carry all their meltable valuables to the mint.”’ “Suppose they do not?” broke in a third party, who had stopped to taste the Quaqua wine. “Why, they will be compelled, neighbor Quintino.” “If the compeller prove sufficiently strong!’ replied the new wrangler to the man with the parcel. . “Why, who is stronger than the King of Spain? Not this new-fledged King of Portugal!” “Well, the King of Portugal may not be as strong as the King of Spain,” returned the fresh logician, to the entertainment of D’Artagnan, “but the King of Spain is less strong than ‘him of Portugal and all Portugal to- gether !’’ “By Bacchus!” thiccoughed a fourth shopkeeper, who had been drinking silently while listening to the debate, and who had come in for the dregs of the wine; “there is one thing stronger than the Kings of Spain and Por- tugal—that is this juice! It has cut my mouth from ear to ear; but fill me up again, worthy priestess of the bot- tle, thou Ariadne, who art comely, though coal black! I could wish my gullet were long as Segovia aqueduct, Gomicbooks:com