“It’s—it’s—it’s—he—he—he!—Oh my!—Oh dear!”
“Gahn! What an old silly you are! What’s the game? Let’s have a bit of the fun.”
“The sun—sun—sun—”
“Don’t stand stuttering there in that stupid way.”
“I couldn’t help it—there, I’m better now. I was coming along the top walk, and there he was right down below, sitting under his old white mushroom.”
“Well, I can’t see anything to laugh at in that. He always is sitting under his old white umbrella, painting, when he isn’t throwing flies.”
“But he isn’t painting. He’s fast asleep; and I could almost hear him snore.”
“Well, if you could hear him snore, you needn’t make a hyena of yourself. I don’t see anything to laugh at in that.”
“No; you never see any fun in anything. Don’t you see the sun’s gone right round, and he’s quite in the shade?”
“Well, suppose he is; where’s the fun?”