“Fo-or he’s a jolly good fellow,” bellowed Steve. “For he’s a jolly good fellow. For he’s—”
There was a sound of quick footsteps outside, and Mamie entered the room like a small whirlwind.
“Be quiet!” she cried. “Do you want to wake him?”
“Wake him?” said Steve. “You can’t wake that kid with dynamite.”
He raised his glass.
“Ladeez’n gentlemen, the boy wonder! Here’s to him! The bantam-weight champeen of Connecticut. The Sixty-First Street Cyclone! The kid they couldn’t sterilize! The White Hope!”
“The White Hope!” echoed Kirk.
“Fo-or he’s a jolly good fellow—” sang Steve.
“Be quiet!” said Mrs. Porter from the doorway, and Steve, wheeling round, caught her eye and collapsed like a pricked balloon.