“Say—you—humorist” said the voice and here it rose sharply
into an undignified squawk of laughter, “You—innercent
child—comedian—you—Charlie—Chaplin—of the—hoosegow—you
shut up—or I'll come down there and—bend—something—over—your
merry little face—understand?” “Yes sir,” said Oliver subduedly.
“Ah right. Now go bye-bye—mama'll call you when she's ready to take you walking” then explosively “I got to catch a train! Oh Holy Mike!”
Oliver left the window and went back toward his bunk, considerably chastened. As he did so a bundle of second-hand clothes on the floor rolled over and disclosed a red and unshaven face.
“Wup!” said Oliver—he had almost stepped on it.
“Wha'?” said the bundle, opening sick eyes.
“Oh nothing. I only said good morning.”
“Wha'?”
“Good morning.”
“Wha'?”
“Good morning.”