“Well, since you urge it that way,” said Booge, “I can't refuse,” and tapping his bare foot on the floor he sang. He found, somewhere in his head, a high, squeaky falsetto. It seemed to dwell in his nose. He sang:—
Go wash the little baby, the baby, the baby;
Go wash the little baby, and give it toast and tea;
Go wash the little baby, the baby, the baby,
Go wash the little baby, and bring it back to me.
He let the last word drone out long and thin, and as it droned he made faces at Buddy, screwing up his eyes, wriggling his nose, and waggling his chin.
“Sing it again, Booge!” cried Buddy enthusiastically. “Sing it again.”
The tramp arose and bowed gravely, first to Buddy and then to the frowning Peter.
“That's enough of that,” said Peter.
“Sing it again, Booge!” commanded Buddy, and the tramp standing with his hand inside his coat, sang, in his deepest bass:—