"Yes," he replied, "the slandering blackguard."
"You hit me on the nose with a push-ball," said I.
"I'll do it again," said he.
"That reporter, evidently a man of some observation, said you didn't wash your neck and that you had the habits of a camel."
"But I do wash my neck," he said, stubbornly, "and I don't know anything about the habits of a camel, but whatever they might happen to be, I haven't got 'em."
"Yes," I replied, as if to myself, "you certainly should wash your neck. That's the very least you could do."
"But I tell you," he cried, desperately, "I keep telling you that I do wash my neck. Why do you go on talking about it as if I didn't! I tell you now, once for all time, that I do wash my neck, and that ends it. Don't talk any more. I want to think."
We sat in silence for a space, then I remarked casually, almost inaudibly, "and you certainly shouldn't have the habits of a camel."
The depraved creature stirred uneasily. "I ain't got 'em," he said.
"Good," I cried heartily. "We understand each other perfectly. In the future you will try to wash your neck and cease from having the habits of a camel. No compromise is necessary. I know you will keep your word."