“But good heavens,” I cried, “I say it in all reverence, then it must be staring right into our pew.”
“So it is,” said my father, “and not only that, the brazen hell-bird’s protruding its tongue.”
The room darkened a little.
“But not intentionally?” I asked. “You don’t mean to say that it’s protruding its tongue intentionally?”
My father gulped once or twice. Then he bowed his head.
“Yes, I do,” he said, “and I say it deliberately.”
Then he rose to his feet and stood looking down at me.
“And that’s not the worst,” he said, “not by a long way.”
“Not the worst?” I cried. “What do you mean?”
My father swayed a little, but managed to recover himself.