“We’ve passed sentence upon the machines!
We have condemned the machines to death!”
Ho ho ho—! He could sing too—could Grot! He could sing drunken songs, just fine! He kicked with both heels against the pedestal of the machine, upon which he was sitting. He pushed the black cap down lower in his neck. With his red fists resting upon his knees, opening wide his mouth, he sang with his whole throat, while his little, wild eyes were fixed on the door:
“Come on, you boozy lot, if you dare!
Come if you want a good hiding, you lousy apes!
Your mother forgot
To pull your pants tight
When you were little, you guttersnipes!
You’re not even fit for pigs’ swill!
You fell from the rubbish cart,