Every one made a note of sorts, with such pleasing results, something so far superior to anything that Sweet Apple Tree could produce, that it was felt to be unchivalrous on the part of Mr. Spillcock to beat his stick on the form and say sternly—
"Altoes, it's Hay. Not Hay flat."
"Pommmm!" in piercing falsetto.
The altoes took up their note again, caught it as it were with a pincers from Mr. Spillcock's back molars.
"Righto," said Mr. Spillcock. "Altoes, if you find yourselves going down, keep yourselves hup. Now hunto 'Im."
And the serious business of the practice began.