“No, not exactly; but I saws wood better nor any half-dozen loafs about the drawbridge. If it wasn’t for grief, I’d give both of you six, and beat you, too, the best day you ever saw, goin’ the rale gum and hickory—for I don’t believe you’re gentlemen’s sons; nothin’ but poor trash—half-and-half—want to be and can’t, or you wouldn’t keep a troubling of me.” “Gauley, Ben, if he isn’t a wharf-rat! If you don’t trot, as I’ve told you a’ready, boss will be down upon you, and fetch you up like a catty on a cork-line—jerk!” “That’s enough,” replied Dilly; “there’s more places nor one in the world—at least there is yet; new fashions haven’t shut up the streets yet, and obligated people to hire hackney balloons if they want to go a-walkin’, or omnibus boardin’-houses when they want a fip’s worth of dinner, or a levy’s-worth of sleep. Natural legs is got some chance for a while, anyhow, and a man can get along if he ain’t got clock-vurks to make him go. “I hope, bimeby,” added Dill, scornfully, as he marched away from the chuckling lads, “that there won’t be no boys to plague people. I’d vote for that new fashion myself. Boys is luisances, accordin’ to me.” He continued to soliloquize as he went, and his last observations were as follows: “I wonder if they wouldn’t list me for a Charley? Hollering oysters and bean-soup has guv’ me a splendid woice; and instead of skeering ’em away, if the thieves were to hear me singing out, my style of doing it would almost coax ’em to come and be took up. They’d feel like a bird when a snake is after it, and would walk up, and poke their coat-collars right into my fist. Then, after a while, I’d perhaps be promoted to the fancy business of pig-ketching, which, though it is werry light and werry elegant, requires genus. Tisn’t every man that can come the scientifics in that line, and has studied the nature of a pig, so as to beat him at canœuvering, and make him surrender ’cause he sees it ain’t no use of doing nothing. It wants larning to conwince them critters, and it’s only to be done by heading ’em up handsome, hopping which ever way they hop, and tripping ’em up genteel by shaking hands with their off-hind leg. I’d scorn to pull their tails out by the roots, or to hurt their feelin’s by dragging ’em about by the ears. “But what’s the use? If I was listed, they’d soon find out to holler the hour and to ketch the thieves by steam; yes, and they’d take ’em to court on a railroad, and try ’em with biling water. They’ll soon have black locomotives for watchmen and constables, and big bilers for judges and mayors. Pigs will be ketched by steam, and will be biled fit to eat before they are done squealing. By and by, folks won’t be of no use at all. There won’t be no people in the world but tea-kettles; no mouths, but safety-valves; and no talking, but blowing off steam. If I had a little biler inside of me, I’d turn omnibus, and week-days I’d run from Kensington to the Navy Yard, and Sundays I’d run to Fairmount.”