HIS COLONIAL OATH
I lately met an old schoolmate of mine up-country. He was much changed. He was tall and lank, and had the most hideous bristly red beard I ever saw. He was working on his father's farm. He shook hands, looked anywhere but in my face―and said nothing. Presently I remarked at a venture:
'So poor old Mr. B., the schoolmaster, is dead.'
'My oath!' he replied.
'He was a good old sort.'
'My oath!'
'Time goes by pretty quick, doesn't it?'
His oath (colonial).
'Poor old Mr. B. died awfully sudden, didn't he?'
He looked up the hill, and said: 'My oath!'
Then he added: 'My blooming oath!'
I thought, perhaps, my city rig or manner embarrassed him, so I stuck my hands in my pockets, spat, and said, to set him at his ease: 'It's blanky hot to-day. I don't know how you blanky blanks stand such blank weather! It's blanky well hot enough to roast a crimson carnal bullock; ain't it?' Then I took out a cake of tobacco, bit off a quarter, and pretended to chew. He replied:
