"Hi'll bash yer bloomin' nose in!" says he, gettin' pink behind the ears.
"Hi'll write to the bloomin' pypers habout it if you do," says I.
I was wishin' that would fetch him, and it did. He comes at me wide open, with a guard like a soft-shell crab. I slips down the state-room passage, out of sight of Sir Peter, catches Danvers by the scruff, chucks him into a berth, and ties him up with the sheets, as careful as if he was to go by express.
"Now make all the holler you want," says I. "It won't disturb us none," and I shut the door.
But Sir Peter was a different proposition. I didn't want to rough-house him. He was too ancient; and anyway, I kind of liked the old chap's looks. He'd forgot all about Danvers, and was makin' figures on an envelope when I got back. I let him figure away, until all of a sudden he puts up his pencil and lugs out that bucket again.
"It's quit raining," says I.
"What do you know about it?" says he. "It's pouring decimals, just pouring 'em. But I've got to get my report in." With that he claps on the bucket, grabs a bag and starts for the car door.
It was up to me to make a quick play; for he was just ripe to go buttin' around those tracks and run afoul of a switch-engine. And I hated to collar him. Just then I spots the tennis-ball.
"Whoop-ee!" says I, grabbin' it up and slammin' it at his head. I made a bull's-eye on the pail, too. "That's a cigar you owe me," says I, "and I gets two more cracks for my nickel." He tried to dodge; but I slammed it at him a couple more times. "Your turn now," says I. "Gimme the bucket."
Sounds foolish, don't it? I'll bet it looked a heap foolisher than it sounds; but I'd just thought of something a feller told me once. He was a young doctor in the bat ward at Bellevue. "They're a good deal like kids," says he, "and if you remember that, you can handle 'em easy."