Murder!—here he has us flat.
He has no name—we didn’t think of that!
King.—
No name?—that’s so! We left it out—great guns!
(Pause, thinking.)
Great guns! great guns! great guns!
Professor, what’s the rhyme for guns?
Prof. (hurriedly, breaking into prose).—See! he’s getting very angry—it’s no time for rhyme now.—Speak in prose—quick, for gracious sakes! and think of something; get up some kind of a name, and tell him—if he gets mad it will ruin all!
King.—That’s a fact! He is getting very angry. I can’t think—you think of something, Professor—he’s scowling at me!
Prof.—I see the force of your argument, and also observe the satanic depression of the eye-brows you refer to; but, for the life of me, I can’t think of anything but Johnny.