"I think there's a dollar-sign in his jaw," whispered Miss Appleby to me.
Already Masticator was addressing us, slowly and softly.
"Dear friends," he said, "be welcome. I am worth two hundred and forty-five millions. Thank God that you are not. Thank God that you are poor. Thank God for your scanty meals and clothing, and your ceaseless failure to make both ends meet. Pray God you may die poor. How I envy you all your blessed privilege of struggle! Thank God, and now to business.
"Everything is getting better. Man is getting better. Woman is getting better. Life, Liberty, Happiness—all getting better. And chickle. Better and better. Then why not English Spelling? Dear friends, I expect results from you. Let us sing the Ode."
A gasoline organ began to play at the end of the apartment, and we profound scholars stood up and sang together:—
My spelling 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of spelling-bee,
Of thee I sing.
Land of the pilgrims' pride,
Land where my fathers dide,
For spelling simplifide
Let freedom ring.
"A beautiful pome," said Lysander Totts, on my other side.
"Where were you educated?" I asked him.