“What I’ll do to you, you cad, and that’s pull your nose if you don’t shut up!” retorted Wally, who was busy over his own theme.
“‘—and puis yore knows if yore a cad, and don’t shut up.’ There, bother it, that ought to do—twelve lines. Good enough for him.”
“Stuck in the stops?” asked Ashby.
“No; by the way—glad you reminded me—I suppose about every four words, eh?”
“Something about that,” said Ashby.
So D’Arcy sprinkled a few stops judiciously through his copy, and having done so began to upbraid his partners for their slowness.
Some time was lost in suppressing him, but he was eventually disposed of under the bath, which was turned upside down to accommodate him and sat upon by the other three, who were thus able to continue their work in peace.
Ashby was done first. He had a congenial subject and wrote con amore.
“I shall now say something about the pig which is my favourite annimal—The pig is a quadruped—Sometimes he is male in which case he is called a hog. Sometimes he is female in which case he is called a sow. Pigs were rings in their noses and are fond of apple-peal. Their young are called litter and are very untidy in their habbits. Pig’s cheek is nice to eat and pork in season is a treat.” (The writer was very proud of this little outbreak of poetry.)
“It is preferrablest roast with sage and apple sauce. I hope I have now described the pig and told you why he is my favourite.”