Thumbs on your trouser seams must rest;
Hold up your head; throw out your chest.”
By the time he had reached the middle of the jingle, Jimmy and Roger were smiling broadly. They, at least, had come into complete understanding of the “great stunt.” The Pole’s stolid face was a study. Light was just beginning faintly to dawn upon him.
“Did you get it?” Bob asked him, his black eyes dancing.
“Y-e-a. Som I get. You read him ’gain.”
“No. I’m going on to the next. When I’m through, I’m going to give you these rules for your own. You must study ’em and learn ’em. See?”
“Y-e-a. Thank.” Ignace beamed seraphic joy at his poetic benefactor. “So will I,” he vowed fervently.
“Go ahead and tear off some more,” begged Jimmy impatiently. “Myra’s sure some poet.”
“I’ll give you a few of ’em just to be obliging and to show I don’t mind being called Myra. You can read the rest yourselves. When you get enough, snap the lever and the talking machine will go dead. All right, Mr. Dalton. So kind of you.” Bob smirked, grimaced, then continued: