“Shut up! Fire away, Telson!”
“‘I am the Radical. I desire to smash everything the little Welchers make noises. Meditations: let me be noble dinner at 3:1 stew. The turnips are gross. I request leave of Riddell to go to the town to-morrow but he sayeth no. I am roused’—that’s all of yesterday.”
“About enough too!” exclaimed the wrathful Parson. “Just read the day before, before we start hiding him.”
“Oh, please don’t lick me!” cried the unhappy author: “I’ll apologise, you know, Parson, Telson; please don’t!”
“‘Wednesday—rose at 8:13. Sang as I shaved the Vicar of Bray. I shall now describe my fellows which are all ugly and gross. Parson is the worst.’”
“Eh?” exclaimed the wrathful owner of that name.
“‘Parson is the worst,’” read Telson, with evident glee, “‘and—and—’ oh, let’s see,” he added, hurriedly turning over the page.
“No, no; read fair; do you hear?” cried Parson. “No skipping.”
“I’ll crack your skull, Bosher,” said Telson, indignantly, handing the diary across to Parson and pointing to the passage.
“‘—And Telson is the most conceited ignorant schoolhouse frog I ever saw at breakfast got thirty lines for gross conduct with the abominable King.’”