“Rather.”
Hammer, hammer.
“Ah! you fight the French revolution all over again with the mother?” he guessed. “Bome! bome! Down will go t’e Bastile. Huzza! Out come the prisoners—little ladies who t’eir mutters have boxed up! Vive la révolution des jeunes filles!”
Hammer, hammer, hammer.
“What?” he looked up.
“Wrong tack, Bardek. Take in a reef.”
“Eh? What?”
“And let down your jib.”
“Nom du nom! What language you talk?” Tap, tap, tap. “Somebody come, eh?”
“Yes; Morris.”