“Where is it?” he rubbered.
“Where’s what?”
“The dog house that you were just talking about.”
“Bow-wow,” says I, to help things along.
“I’m going to call my father,” fatty then blew up, madder than a dozen wet hens.
“Don’t bother,” Poppy turned up his nose, “for we’ve already met him.”
That put the kid wise, which proved that he wasn’t such a hopeless dumb-bell after all.
“Now I know who youse guys are,” says he, giving us a pair of evil eyes.
“Who told you, Lena?”
“Lena? Lena who?”