The whistler rose and rubbed his ear, aggrieved.
"What's that for?" he asked.
Stanley scowled down at him.
"Whistlin' that at Putnam's o' Sunday."
"What were I whistlin' then?" asked the aggrieved urchin.
"Mocassin Song," said the haughty Stan. "Now no more of it!"
"I didn't know I were whistlin' it," replied the youth.
"He whistles it in his dreams, Alf does," explained a little pal. "It's got to his head."
"He won't 'ave no 'ead to dream with if he mocassins us," retorted Stan.
The wrong righted, and order restored, Stanley stalked majestically back to his pal with a wink.