The lights in the near-café were very bright, the voices very high, the conversation exquisitely witty, the mechanical piano a symphonic rhapsody, and the heart of Tidbury Epps was pumping with wild, unwonted pumps; he smiled to himself. He was going to the devil at a great rate. He waxed loquacious. He told them anecdotes; he even sang a little.
He beamed upon Jake, and playfully plucked a tuft of hair from his costume.
"Nice li'l' monkey," he said affably.
"Not a monkey!" denied Jake indignantly.
"Wad are you? S-s-schimpaz-z-ze-e-e?"
"Nope. Not a S-s-schimpaz-z-ze-e-e."
"Ran-tan?"
"Nope. Not a ran-tan."
"Bamboo?"
"Nope. Not a bamboo."