"That's right," said Mr. Pawket, spooning up gravy. He retucked a kitchen towel in his neck, approving: "I don't know but what we ought to read it. There may be sumpin' in it somebody wants we should know."
The twins handled the letter casually; they attacked the superscription with glib unconcern.
"Hot-hell Medusa." began one twin, confidently.
He was instantly corrected by the other twin. "Yah—it is not Hot-hell—it's Hotel Medusa, It'ly. Yah!"
"It'ly? It'ly?" mused Mr. Pawket. "Well, I made out the I T, all right. Now I ought to 'a' guessed the rest, It'ly bein' a place I'm familiar with."
The twins were in conference.
"Medusa—you know who she was," remarked the elder twin by four seconds.
"Don't, huh? Snakes for hair—hey? Look at you and you turn into stone—hey?"
"Shut up! She did not!"
"Shut up! She did!"