Skippy drew forth a handy literal translation and ostensibly began to apply it to the baffling text.
"My lord, you act like a sick girl! You're a pleasant roommate, you are! How long are you going to sulk like this?"
Skippy began to whistle softly to himself:
"You can't play in my backyard;
I don't love you any more."
Whereupon Snorky, having slammed a book on the table, advanced with doubled fists, exclaiming:
"You stop that, do you hear! You stop that or—or—I'll—"
Skippy, whose calm was delightfully reinforced by this show of temper, again, but without looking up, indicated the pad and pencil.
"I can lick you!" said Snorky hoarsely.
This was too much. Skippy sprang up, fists ready, and glowered his defiance. For a long moment they held this bellicose attitude, a collision imminent. But a resort to primitive methods is a serious affair between roommates. Each hesitated, seeking a dignified evasion of the crisis.
"Well, go on with your baby act, if you enjoy it," said Snorky scornfully. "Lord, I'd hate to have your disposition!"