Day 12.

After I read page 14, I was looking forward to more. But after page 15, I feared I would never find a tempo/rhythm to this book, nor the desire to continue on. But after turning to 16, I saw that real dialogue was coming (pages 16 to 180. Though, in a less than standard format. Though, if I want standard formatting, this is not the book for it.

Jute. - Yutah!
Mutt. - Mukk's pleasurad.
Jute. - Are you jeff?
Mutt. - Somehards.
Jute. - But you are not jeffmute?
Mutt. - Noho. Only an utterer.
Jute. - Whoa? Whoat is the mutter with you?
Mutt. - I became a stun a stummer.

astonished?

Jute. - What a hauhauhauhaudibble thing, to be cause! How,
Mutt?

horrible?

Mutt. - Aput the buttle, surd.
Jute. - Whose poddle? Wherein?

they brought a drink to make a toast?

Mutt. - The Inns of Dungtarf where Used awe to be he.
Jute. - You that side your voise are almost inedible to me.
Become a bitskin more wiseable, as if I were
you.
Mutt. - Has? Has at? Hasatency? Urp, Boohooru! Booru
Usurp! I trumple from rath in mine mines when I
rimimirim !

remember him?

Jute. - One eyegonblack. Bisons is bisons. Let me fore all
your hasitancy cross your qualm with trink gilt. Here
have sylvan coyne, a piece of oak. Ghinees hies good
for you.

Guiness?

My gut reaction eyegoneblack is a pun on Oregon, but I can't explain why I feel that way.

Mutt. - Louee, louee! How wooden I not know it, the intel-
lible greytcloak of Cedric Silkyshag! Cead mealy
faulty rices for one dabblin bar. Old grilsy growlsy!
He was poached on in that eggtentical spot. Here             where the liveries, Monomark. There where the mis-             sers moony, Minnikin passe.

Jute. - Simply because as Taciturn pretells, our wrongstory-
shortener, he dumptied the wholeborrow of rubba-
ges on to soil here.
Mutt. - Just how a puddinstone inat the brookcells by a
riverpool.
Jute. - Load Allmarshy! Wid wad for a norse like?
Mutt. - Somular with a bull on a clompturf. Rooks roarum
rex roome! I could snore to him of the spumy horn,
with his woolseley side in, by the neck I am sutton
on, did Brian d' of Linn.
Jute. - Boildoyle and rawhoney on me when I can beuraly
forsstand a weird from sturk to finnic in such a pat-
what as your rutterdamrotter. Onheard of and um-
scene! Gut aftermeal! See you doomed.

Jute is saying he can't understand a word from start to finish, because of someone's patoise. Ironic.

Mutt. - Quite agreem. Bussave a sec. Walk a dun blink
roundward this albutisle and you skull see how olde
ye plaine of my Elters, hunfree and ours, where wone
to wail whimbrel to peewee o'er the saltings, where
wilby citie by law of isthmon, where by a droit of
signory, icefloe was from his Inn the Byggning to
whose Finishthere Punct. Let erehim ruhmuhrmuhr.

Let erehim ruhmuhrmuhr? Let them remember?

Mearmerge two races, swete and brack. Morthering
rue. Hither, craching eastuards, they are in surgence:
hence, cool at ebb, they requiesce. Countlessness of
livestories have netherfallen by this plage, flick as
flowflakes, litters from aloft, like a waast wizzard all of
whirlworlds. Now are all tombed to the mound, isges
to isges, erde from erde. Pride, O pride, thy prize!

This is the second mention of snowflakes, which I assume in the 30s people thought were unique.

Jute. - 'Stench!
Mutt. - Fiatfuit! Hereinunder lyethey. Llarge by the smal an'
everynight life olso th'estrange, babylone the great-
grandhotelled with tit tit tittlehouse, alp on earwig,
drukn on ild, likeas equal to anequal in this sound
seemetery which iz leebez luv.

Jute. - 'Zmorde!
Mutt. - Meldundleize! By the fearse wave behoughted. Des-
pond's sung. And thanacestross mound have swollup
them all. This ourth of years is not save brickdust
and being humus the same roturns. He who runes
may rede it on all fours. O'c'stle, n'wc'stle, tr'c'stle,
crumbling! Sell me sooth the fare for Humblin! Hum-
blady Fair. But speak it allsosiftly, moulder! Be in
your whisht!
Jute. - Whysht?
Mutt. - The gyant Forficules with Amni the fay.

Forficules? Finn McCool again?

Amni they fay? Anna?

Jute. - Howe?
Mutt. - Here is viceking's graab.
Jute. - Hwaad !
Mutt. - Ore you astoneaged, jute you?
Jute. - Oye am thonthorstrok, thing mud.

My gut is telling me Jute and Mutt (mutt and jeff) are Finnegan's sons. They are actually probably very dumb, and in Finnegan's concussive state, he's making them sound smart, projecting his desire for intelligent children.

I'm not sure if anyone should be able to understand/decode this on first read.