Prissy, whose telephone was as much a part of his bedtime equipment as his nightshirt, had lain perfectly flat upon his bed and with their decisions his “seven months gone” bay-window rose and fell. Cushioned upon what had once been his chest was a French telephone.
Their first decision had been to tell MacArthur “right out” that they had to have a private meeting without either of the Sterlings present, and decide something.
As Prissy’s upper teeth and Princeton’s lower ones were removed for the night, their vehemence had seemed awfully mushy to the telephone operator when she cut in for Paton’s resident.
But when the discourse was resumed Princeton had said:
“I shell inten’ to shay, at the meetin’ we are demandin’, Paton.”
Prissy’s front had given a proud heave.
“That we cannot have our poshishun jepodized any longer. Action” ... the bay-window rose ... “must be taken immediately. The powice—”
Five minutes had been lost over that word. Neither of them could persuade the telephone to accept it.
“The law to intervene,” Princeton finally substituted.
“I agwee entirely, Peshurs. I’ll stan’ behin’ you, straight through.”