It so chanced that on the second day after my arrival a pack-train came along, guided by a nettlesome old man and a strong, black-haired lass of sixteen or thereabouts. The old man . . . had no sooner slipped the packs from the horses than he began to rail at Hans, who stood looking on. You damned Dutchmen all be Tories, and worse, he cried.

Boy, do I feel horrible after drinking too many mustache rides last night.

And if you want to sing a mocking, dark, moralistic song...well, that's just the icing on the cake. It's their just desserts, really. “And those, my protégé, are my three revengeances.”

Such stupidness is mad 'cause nothing underfoot comes to nothing less to add to a load of old tut.