Penny always discouraged precocious criticism, so he replied:
"I'm not arguing with you, my child."
"You? Who are you?"
Penny let his thumbs go further into his armholes, and assured us with majestic suavity:
"I? I'm Me."
"No, you're not," snapped Doe. "You're not me. I'm me."
"Well, you're neither of you me," interrupted the third fool in the room. "I'm me. So sucks!"
"Now you two boys," began our stately patron, "don't you begin dictating to me. Once and for all, Doe is Doe, Ray is Ray, and I'm Me. Why, by Jove! Doe-Ray-Me! It's a joke; and I'm a gifted person."
This discovery of the adaptability of our names was so startling that I exclaimed:
"Good Lord! How mad!"