"I admit, sir," I responded, "that our spelling is but a rag-bag of lawlessness. But it has been ratified by a noble army of great writers. They and the daily press have spread it over the world. Therefore we must go slowly. We must do it right. Derivation——"
"Bless yore heart, suh," the impetuous youth interrupted me, "what's derivation? Just conquest follo'd by mispronunciation. Julius Cæsuh he lambastes Gaul; and he talks Latin to 'em; he says 'honor,' an' he goes home; an' the Gauls retain Cæsuh's idea, as all puffeck gennlemen should, but the nearest they kin git to the Latin is 'honneur.' An' then, whoop they come over to England, an' they lambaste the Anglo-Saxons, an' talk to 'em about 'honneur.' An' the Anglo-Saxons, bein' also puffeck gennlemen, they ketches on to the idea, but be-Jeroosalemmed if they kin say it straight, either; an' so it gits to be 'honour.' An' then comes our glorious Revolution; an' we tell the English, 'Good-by to yo', King Geawge. Good-by to yore iniquitous parliament. Good-by to yore whole dog-goned outfit of tyrants and helots. We-all don' keer how you-all spell anything whatsoever, an' the language of Washington, an' Jeffuhson, an' Patrick Henry, an' all the glorious fathuhs of libuhty, is goin' to spell it honor without a u.' An' there you are, back to yore original Latin."
"A noble sentiment, Professor," said Kibosh. "A truly noble sentiment. Will you not join me in a chickle?"
The professor bounded to his full, long height, with all the agility of the felis catus of his own wild, native mountains.
"I'm with you, suh!" he exclaimed. "Be-Jeroosalemmed if I wasn't pow'ful thirsty."
"Chickle is not liquid refreshment," said Kibosh, mildly; and he held out the box to his tall guest.
"Chickle is not liquid refreshment."
The professor glared at it for a moment. "You and yore chickle," he then began, with alarming deliberation, "can go right——"