“Two against one,” came the sneer.
Never have I known a kid who can hold his temper any better than Poppy. And what the steady leader did now, instead of soaking the fat smart aleck, was to give me a wink.
“Get a tapeline, Jerry.”
“What for?” says I.
“We’re going to do some measuring.”
I caught on then, for once before we had pulled this stunt of making a monkey out of the other guy. And perfectly suited with the program, I borrowed a tape measure from the housekeeper and got busy.
“Five feet six,” says I, giving fatty’s height.
Poppy gravely wrote that down.
“Twenty-eight inches from starboard to poop deck,” says I, meaning across the hips.
That was written down, too.