“You can’t catch any larks around here,” our young hero said, “but there are wild pigeons. I can tell you all about birds, I know all about stalking.”
I said, “Don’t mind him, he’s so dumb he thinks that stalking is named after a stork. He thinks that all the news of the birds is published in the fly-paper.”
“Oh, he’s just stuck on the fly-paper,” Brent said.
CHAPTER XI
AN INTERMISSION
It was nice sitting there under a big tree kind of all jollying each other and eating fish-balls. We decided that as long as we were so comfortable we would forget about our left-handed resolution for a little while and then go back down to the lake and row to the outlet and take the first road to the left.
“That’s the only sensible thing to do,” Marjorie said.
“That’s what makes me think we shouldn’t do it,” I told her; “we made a resolution to do everything wrong.”
Stella Wingate said. “Well, then, as long as you’re not supposed to be sitting here eating fish-balls you might as well do it.”
“Sure, that’s logic,” Pee-wee said. “We can give the fish-balls a broad interpretation, can’t we? We can construe—what d’you call it—treat them freely.”
“Oh, most conclusively,” I said.