“The dickens I do!” Dan laughed.
“You don’t? But you would get me if I told you you were pitting on the sorch of the Hashington’s Wead?”
“Once more, please, and give me something easier,” begged Dan.
“Very well; set me lee. I suppose you know that you had choast ricken for dinner?”
“Roast chicken! But how the dickens do you do it so quickly? I’d have to think an hour.”
“Hink a thour, you mean,” Ned corrected. “It’s serfectly pimple. It pomes with cractice.”
“For goodness’ sake, shut up!” laughed Dan. “You’ll have me crazy. It’s a wonderful language, though. I shall study it. Have you written a book about it yet?”
“Yot net,” replied Ned, shaking his head, “but I’m toing go. When I do I shall dedicate it to Van Dinton.”
Dan put his hands to his ears and jumped up. “Come on,” he cried, “and let me take you home before you get any worse!”
“You mean,” began Ned gravely.