“Any feathers, Gringo,” I said gently.
“Oh, shut up,” he growled. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t wish other dogs to make game of you,” I said firmly.
“Bah! what’s grammar,” he said contemptuously.
“It isn’t grammar,” I said, “it’s good English.”
“I’m American now,” he growled. “I’ll talk as I like.”
“All right,” I replied, “I’ll never correct you again.”
“Yes, you will,” he said crossly. “You just dare to stop correcting me.”
“But you resent it,” I said.