“Such as what?” asked Dicksie.
“Such as you, for example,” said Marion.
“Am I a thing?”
“A sweet thing, of course,” said Marion ironically. “Yes, you; with color of eyes, hair, length of index finger of the right hand, curvature of thumb, disposition––whether peaceable or otherwise, and prison record, if any.”
“And number of your watch,” added McCloud.
“How dreadful!”
Whispering Smith eyed Dicksie benignly. “They are talking this nonsense to distract us, of course, but I am bound to read you what I have here, if you will graciously submit.”
“Submit? I wait to hear it,” laughed Dicksie.
“My training in prosody is the slightest, as 203 will appear,” he continued, “and synecdoche and Schenectady were always on the verge of getting mixed when I went to school. My sentiment may be termed obvious, but I want to offer a slight apology on behalf of trouble; it is abused too much. I submit this
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“SONG TO TROUBLE “Here’s to the measure of every man’s worth, Though when men are wanting it grieves us. Hearts that are hollow we’re better without, Hearts that are loyal it leaves us. “Trouble’s the dowry of every man’s birth, A nettle adversity flings us; It yields to the grip of the masterful hand, When we play coward it stings us. |