“Oh, that’s another thing entirely,” said the Turtle, handing me some matches from his waistcoat pocket, and accepting a cigarette in return. “But really we have got so sick of those advertisement catchwords since the Doctor-in-Law returned from London with agencies for all sorts of things, that we hate the very sound of them. We are continually being told to ‘Call a spade a spade,’ which will be ‘grateful and comforting’ to ‘an ox in a teacup’ who is ‘worth a guinea a box,’ and who ‘won’t be happy till he gets it.’”
“It must be very trying,” I murmured sympathetically.
“Oh, it is,” remarked the Turtle. “Well,” he continued in a business-like tone, “I’m sorry you can’t stop—good morning.”
“I didn’t say anything about going,” I ejaculated.
“Oh, didn’t you? Well, I did then,” said the Turtle emphatically. “Move on, please!”
“You’re very rude,” I remarked.
“Think so?” said the Turtle pleasantly. “That’s all right then—good-by,” and he flopped down on his knees and resumed his scrubbing.
THE TURTLE FLOPPED DOWN ON HIS KNEES AND RESUMED HIS SCRUBBING.