"S-s-sh!" says I. "Take it easy."
Ever see an old lady tryin' to shoo a rooster into a fence corner, while the old man waited around the end of the woodshed with the axe? You know how gentle and easy the trick has to be worked? Well, that was me explainin' to Curlylocks how we was havin' a little exercise with the kid pillows,—oh, just a little harmless tappin' back and forth, so's we could sleep well afterwards,—and didn't he feel like tryin' it for a minute with Chester? Smooth! Some of that talk of mine would have greased an axle.
Sylvie, old boy, he blinks at me through his glasses, like a poll parrot sizin' up a firecracker that little Jimmy wants to hand him. He don't say anything, but he seems some interested. He reaches out for one of the mitts and pokes a finger into the paddin', lookin' it over as if it was some kind of a curiosity.
"Reg'lar swan's down cushions," says I.
"Like to have you try a round or so, Vickers," puts in Chester, as careless as he could. "Professor McCabe will show you how to put them on."
"Ah, really?" says Curlylocks. Then he has to step up and inspect Chester's frame up.
"That's the finish!" thinks I; for Chetty's a well built boy, good and bunchy around the shoulders, and when he peels down to a sleeveless jersey he looks 'most as wicked as Sharkey. But, just as we're expectin' Curlylocks to show how wise he was, he throws out a bluff that leaves us gaspin' for breath.
"Do you know," says he, "if I was in the mood for that sort of thing, I'd be charmed; but—er——"
"Oh, fudge!" says Chetty. "I expect you'd rather recite us some poetry?" And at that one of Chester's chums snickers right out. Sylvie flushes up like some one had slapped him on the wrist.
"Beg pardon," says he; "but I believe I will try it for a little while," and he holds out his paws for me to slip on the gloves.