“Promise be darned!” he yelled furiously. “Mention her name! I'll mention any name I set out to, and no Italyun Portygee is goin' to stop me, neither.”
Albert glanced about the office. By the wall stood two brimming pails of water, brought in by Mr. Price for floor-washing purposes. He lifted one of the pails.
“If you don't promise I'll duck you,” he declared. “Let go of me, Keeler, I mean it.”
“Careful, Al, careful,” said Mr. Keeler. “Better promise, Is.”
“Promise nawthin'! Fosdick! What in time do I care for Fosdicks, Madelines or Padelines or Dandelions or—”
His sentence stopped just there. The remainder of it was washed back and down his throat by the deluge from the bucket. Overcome by shock and surprise, Mr. Price leaned back against the wall and slid slowly down that wall until he reclined in a sitting posture, upon the floor.
“Crimustee,” he gasped, as soon as he could articulate, “I'm—awk—I'm drownded.”
Albert put down the empty bucket and picked up the full one.
“Promise,” he said again.
Laban Keeler rubbed his chin.