“Exercise is the staff of life,” philosophised Yoo-ti-hu.
“Blast it!” shrieked Tally-yang-sang.
“Piety is pleasant,” moralised Yoo-ti-hu.
“Damnable!” roared Tally-yang-sang.
Yoo-ti-hu perceived the vigor departing from the limbs of the Great Nazir, whereupon he struck up a still livelier air. Tally-yang-sang curvetted and pranced—whirled hither and thither his bare spindles, and leaped madly among the thorns. In an agony of pain he cried, “Dear, gentle Yoo-ti-hu,—I beseech thee to stop!”
“Verily,” quoth Yoo-ti-hu, “I value my head.”
“I shall not harm a hair,” groaned Tally-yang-sang.
“Words are cheap,” said Yoo-ti-hu.
“But I swear—I solemnly swear!” piteously cried Tally-yang-sang.
“By what?”