"D'ye know y'r own answers?" yelled Len at Jack.
"No."
The brazenness of the admission flabbergasted the twins. They stalked off. Len drew up a three-legged stool, and sat down to milk, explaining impatiently that success comes to those that work and don't drink.
"But"—he reverted to his original thought—"ye've gotta work, not go wastin' y'r feme as you generally do of a morning-boundin' about makin' a kangaroo of y'self; tippin' y' elbows and holdin' back y' nut as if y' had a woppin' fine drink in both hands, and gone screwed with joy afore you drained it; lyin' flat on y' hands an' toes, an' heavin' up an' down, up an' down, like a race-horse iguana frightened by a cat; an' stalkin' an' stoopin' as if y'wanted ter catch a bird round a corner; or roundin' up on imaginary things, makin' out t'hit 'em slap-bang-whizz on the mitts they ain't got; whippin' round an' bobbin' like a cornered billy-goat; skippin' up an' down like sis wif a rope, an' makin' a general high falutin' ass of y'self."
"I see you and the twins with clubs," said Jack.
"Oh, that! That's more for music an' one-two-three-four," said Len.
"You see I'm in training," said Jack.
"What for? Want ter teach the old sows to start dancin' on th' corn-bin floor?"
"No, I want to keep in training, for if I ever have a big fight."
"Who with?"