“The sponge, Herr Rektor,” I said. “It was on the floor and I kicked it, like this—” it bounded across to the table—“and Niels, he—”
“Ah,” Rector was all interest; “Niels, he—?”
“He kicked it—so, and it landed where Hans stood.”
“Eh!” he was rubbing his hands; “and Hans?”
“Hans, he sent it—this way—to Peter; and Peter trod on it, and it shied to Anders. And he—”
We were skipping across the room together, mapping out the journeys of the vagrant sponge as fast as Rector’s gout allowed, when we arrived at the turn.
“It came back to me,” I explained, “and I was just going to fire it—”
“Ha! you were just going to fire it—”
“Ha! you were just going to fire it—”