"And when Perkins brought it, he poured it down his neck—yes, sir, every drop—"
The master cut in irritably: "His neck—confound it, man, tell your story without slang—or leave off! You know I detest—"
"Not slang, sir"—hastily—"his neck—outside, I mean—"
"Oh, stuff!"—incredulously—"mean to tell me—"
"He did, sir—I'll swear it!" The butler was respectful, but firm as the rock of what's-its-name. "Perkins tried to stop him and says: 'Wait a minute, Mr. Jack—you're making a mistake—it ain't 'round there; it's in front, you know!' And he turned on Perkins with a scowl something awful, and his langwige—well, it wasn't langwige at all! Perkins thought—" He paused.
"Um!" The judge had drawn me aside. "The alienation is unusual—what do you think, Lightnut?"—he looked grave—"it doesn't seem the ordinary hiatus—the passing alcoholic dementia, you know—there seems in it something hydrophobic—eh?"
"Oh, dash it, yes—that's all!" I said offhand—just took a chance, don't you know!
"Um!" He blinked at me; then faced square about. "I guess I'd better go up; perhaps when he sees me—"
He halted, leveling a stern glance at Wilkes.
"What the dev—what are you grinning about?" he rasped.