That reminded Jelly of a story that he had heard his father tell. Moreover, he assured them seriously, it was a true story.
“Well,” sighed Rob, “go ahead with it and get it off your mind.”
Whether it was true or not, it was very long and somewhat complicated and the audience soon gave up trying to follow its intricacies. Rob went to sleep and snored shamelessly. This annoyed Jelly and he lost connection.
“And so—and so—Where was I?”
“The druggist was just filling the prescription,” replied Evan.
“Whereupon,” murmured Malcolm sleepily, “the goat climbed on to the counter and ate up the nail-files, shrieking in a high falsetto voice, ‘Death to tyrants!’ But see, who comes here? Ah, ’tis our hero! Vaulting nimbly upon the back of his restless steed Diamond Dick Tolliver drew his trusty bean-shooter and waving it above his head cried—”
“Oh, shut up, Malcolm! Can’t you let me tell my story?”
“Proceed,” breathed Malcolm sweetly. “Wake me when you’re through, Jelly.”
So Jelly went on. Ten minutes later he paused at the climax of his narrative.
“What do you think of that?” he asked beamingly. There was no reply: His three auditors were sound asleep. Jelly viewed them disgustedly one after another. Then he lay down on his back, put an arm under his head and followed the general example.