[mike78]

#angielski #pasta #humor #januszejezykow

Ostrzegam: długie (w kilku częściach) i po angielsku. I śmieszne. I ciekawy, archaiczno-slangowy język. Jest to pasta z roku 1905 autorstwa Ellisa Parkera Butlera (wtedy to się nazywało nowela :P)

Tytuł: Pigs is pigs.

Ważna informacja: "guinea pigs" to po polsku świnki morskie :D

Mike Flannery, the Westcote agent of the Interurban Express Company,
leaned over the counter of the express office and shook his fist.
Mr. Morehouse, angry and red, stood on the other side of the counter,
trembling with rage. The argument had been long and heated, and at last
Mr. Morehouse had talked himself speechless. The cause of the trouble
stood on the counter between the two men. It was a soap box across
the top of which were nailed a number of strips, forming a rough but
serviceable cage. In it two spotted guinea-pigs were greedily eating
lettuce leaves.

“Do as you loike, then!” shouted Flannery, “pay for thim an’ take
thim, or don’t pay for thim and leave thim be. Rules is rules, Misther
Morehouse, an’ Mike Flannery’s not goin’ to be called down fer breakin’
of thim.”

“But, you everlastingly stupid idiot!” shouted Mr. Morehouse, madly
shaking a flimsy printed book beneath the agent’s nose, “can’t you read
it here-in your own plain printed rates? ‘Pets, domestic, Franklin to
Westcote, if properly boxed, twenty-five cents each.’” He threw the book
on the counter in disgust. “What more do you want? Aren’t they pets?
Aren’t they domestic? Aren’t they properly boxed? What?”

He turned and walked back and forth rapidly; frowning ferociously.

Suddenly he turned to Flannery, and forcing his voice to an artificial
calmness spoke slowly but with intense sarcasm.

“Pets,” he said “P-e-t-s! Twenty-five cents each. There are two of them.
One! Two! Two times twenty-five are fifty! Can you understand that? I
offer you fifty cents.”

Flannery reached for the book. He ran his hand through the pages and
stopped at page sixty four.

“An’ I don’t take fifty cints,” he whispered in mockery. “Here’s the
rule for ut. ‘Whin the agint be in anny doubt regardin’ which of two
rates applies to a shipment, he shall charge the larger. The con-sign-ey
may file a claim for the overcharge.’ In this case, Misther Morehouse,
I be in doubt. Pets thim animals may be, an’ domestic they be, but pigs
I’m blame sure they do be, an’ me rules says plain as the nose on
yer face, ‘Pigs Franklin to Westcote, thirty cints each.’ An’ Mister
Morehouse, by me arithmetical knowledge two times thurty comes to sixty
cints.”

[mike78]

c.d.

Mr. Morehouse shook his head savagely. “Nonsense!” he shouted,
“confounded nonsense, I tell you! Why, you poor ignorant foreigner, that
rule means common pigs, domestic pigs, not guinea pigs!”

Flannery was stubborn.

“Pigs is pigs,” he declared firmly. “Guinea-pigs, or dago pigs or Irish
pigs is all the same to the Interurban Express Company an’ to Mike
Flannery. Th’ nationality of the pig creates no differentiality in the
rate, Misther Morehouse!

[mike78]

c.d.

A few weeks later he received a reply from the Claims Department.
Attached to it was his last letter.

“Dr. Sir,” said the reply. “Your letter of the 16th inst., addressed to
this Department, subject rate on guinea-pigs from Franklin to Westcote,
ree’d. We have taken up the matter with our agent at Westcote, and his
reply is attached herewith. He informs us that you refused to receive
the consignment or

[mike78]

c.d.

“Wan, -- two, -- t’ree, -- four, -- five, -- six, -- sivin, -- eight!”
he counted. “Sivin spotted an’ wan all black. All well an’ hearty an’
all eatin’ loike ragin’ hippypottymusses. He went back to his desk and
wrote.

“Mr. Morgan, Head of Tariff Department,” he wrote. “Why do I say dago
pigs is pigs because they is pigs and will be til you say they ain’t
which is

[mike78]

c.d.

Mr. Morgan, the head of the Tariff Department, consulted the president
of the Interurban Express Company regarding guinea-pigs, as to whether
they were pigs or not pigs. The president was inclined to treat the
matter lightly.

“What is the rate on pigs and on pets?” he asked.

“Pigs thirty cents, pets twenty-five,” said Morgan.

“Then of course guinea-pigs are pigs,” said the president.

“Yes,” agreed Morgan, “I look at it that

[mike78]

c.d.

Flannery, letter in hand, looked at the pigs and sighed. The dry-goods
box cage had become too small. He boarded up twenty feet of the rear
of the express office to make a large and airy home for them, and went
about his business. He worked with feverish intensity when out on his
rounds, for the pigs required attention and took most of his time. Some
months later, in desperation, he

[mike78]

c.d.

Immediately following its authorization the Audit Department sent
another letter, but Flannery was too busy to open it. They wrote another
and then they telegraphed:

“Error in guinea-pig bill. Collect for two guinea-pigs, fifty cents.
Deliver all to consignee.”

Flannery read the telegram and cheered up. He wrote out a bill as
rapidly as his pencil could travel over paper and ran all the way to the
Morehouse home. At the

[mike78]

c.d.

“Stop sending pigs. Warehouse full,” came a telegram to Flannery. He
stopped packing only long enough to wire back, “Can’t stop,” and kept
on sending them. On the next train up from Franklin came one of
the company’s inspectors. He had instructions to stop the stream of
guinea-pigs at all hazards. As his train drew up at Westcote station
he saw a cattle car standing on the express company’s siding. When