“Rotten,” said Vereker, with a shiver. “You sh’d have called yourselves The Botanists,” he added a minute later.
“Why?”
“Because you culled Peroxide Daisies and Lilies of the Ballet.”
“Ghastly,” observed Gussie, with a shudder. “And cull is a beastly word. One who culls is a cully. . . . How’d you like to be called Cully, Murie?” he shouted in that officer’s ear. Receiving no reply, he pounded upon the sleeper’s stomach with one hand while violently rolling his head from side to side with the other.
Murie awoke.
“Whassup?” he jerked out nervously.
“How’d you like to be called Cully?” shouted Gussie again.
Murie fixed a glassy eye on him. His face was chalky white and his black hair lay dank across his forehead.
“Eh?” said he.
Gussie repeated his enquiry.