THE REPORTER INTERVUES A PULITICKEL GOST.--ROS CONKLIN GIVES
HIM SUM PRESERDENSHALL POINTERS, AND VANISHES WITH HIS
BOTTEL.
Yesterday was Sunday, so I didn't mak no entry, cos the corpse hadn't
climaxed.
Jest as we was leavin the offis Saturday nite I heerd the city editur
tell the purlitickal repertoriai liar that he wanted him to hunt up
a purlitickal gost, cos the _Buster_ culdn't afford to let a little
one-horsed, two-for-a-cent daily, like the _Times_, have the monopolie
of the etheriel spirit act, not by a numerous long site. Bout 10 'clock
in the evenin I saw the reporter passin our house, on his way to Trinity
churchyard, so I run up stairs and borrered one of ma's nite gownds
and nite caps, wot she wares wen she's 'mbracin morfeeus. Then I tuk a
short-cut down to the seminery. I'd jest got there, and was puttin the
last touches to my gostley toilet, wen I seen the reporter comin in the
gate. Wen he got purty neer up to were I was I coffed sort o' loud and
unearthy like. Well, you'd dide to see him drop his note book and get a
fit of Hodeley's shakin malaria. He was jest recoverin and gettin ready
to vacate the premises wen I immertated the voice of the feller wot says
the long prayers at Oshun grove camp meetin, and sez:
“Young mortel noosepaper man, what warntedst thou, encroachin on the
peece and quiet of our last restin place, with thy terrestriel note
book?”
“In the name of John Kelley, the omnippetent boss of the New York
Demmercrazey, who are you? Speak!” said the reporter.
“Sinse you command me in the name of one of the gods, I will speak. See
this brillyant plumage,” sed I, placin my hand where I sit down, “now
covered from earthly vue. I am Stalwart Conklin, the stallwart of the
Rerpublikan partie, doomed for a sertain time (till '84) to strut arouad
on the confines of the perlitickel arena, attended by my humbel page
Mctoo.”
“Ros, old boy, shake!” sed the reporter, puttia out his baud and givia
mine a urthly pull, soon as he found out he warnt talkin to no angel.
“Who's goin to be the coming President?”
“Lissen, and I'll unfold a tail See yonder rooster, all bedecked in
gold?” sed I, pointin to the wether vein on top of the _Tribune_ bildin.
“Well, put your hand to it, and you'll behold the man wot my in-flooence
is going to carry to the Wite House. If you've got eny spare change, put
her up on Winnyfield Skot Hancock, and count Mr. Conklin in Secretarry
of State, but don't yer never giv it away, cos I'm play in' a dubbel
game. Give us a suck of your bottel, and I'll hie myself thitherward for
my nitely game of pennie anty with Genral Grant, who alreddy is awaitin'
me behind yonder cloud of Havannah smoke.”
“Hold on, Ros, leve us a smell,” sed the reporter, as I shoved the
bottel in my pistil pocket, and disserpeered behind a toombstun.
This mornin' the intervue come out in the _Buster_, and the hull corpse
of noosgathururs of the other papers is detaled in divishuns to wach all
the semerneries in the hope of interviewin' the gost of James G. Blame,
and the demmercrazey is wilder with inthusiasm than they was after
Fouracres got drownded in wiskey out in Oio.