“Oh my eye!” cried Fledgeby, struggling anew. “It’s salt and snuff. It’s up my nose, and down my throat, and in my windpipe. Ugh! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ah⁠—h⁠—h⁠—h!” And here, crowing fearfully, with his eyes starting out of his head, appeared to be contending with every mortal disease incidental to poultry.

“And oh my eye, I’m so sore!” cried Fledgeby, starting, over on his back, in a spasmodic way that caused the dressmaker to retreat to the wall. “Oh I smart so! Do put something to my back and arms, and legs and shoulders. Ugh! It’s down my throat again and can’t come up. Ow! Ow! Ow! Ah⁠—h⁠—h⁠—h! Oh I smart so!” Here Mr. Fledgeby bounded up, and bounded down, and went rolling over and over again.