“Yes, rather,” Johnny agreed.
Virginia counted steadily: “One ... two ... three ... fo——”
“All right!” Ivor stopped her with a grin. He addressed them all: “Now this is a story about a comb——”
“Oh, you’ve cribbed O. Henry’s!” cried Lois.
“That’s done it,” sighed Ivor. “I won’t play any more. Let Johnny try.”
“Oh!” said Virginia.
“That’s all right,” said Johnny. “I am not an author, I am a man of ideas. Watch me. Now this is a story about a comb——”
“You’ve cribbed Ivor’s!” cried Virginia.
“No, but he’ll crib mine,” snapped Johnny.
“Whistler said that,” remarked Ivor.