“Holee henhawks!” gasps Dirty. “Who have we here?”
“Aye am de ship-hoorder,” comes from a hole in the hair.
“Bale of hay from Sweden!” gasps Dirty, and the hair opens again.
“Aye am de ship-hoorder.”
“What a dugout for dandruff!” says I.
“Yah! Who are you fallers?”
“Your successors,” says I. “You can tie up your war-sack and pilgrim.”
“Haw?” He seems to think it over, and shakes his head.
“Aye tank Aye stay. Das iss my yob. Aye am de ship-hoorder.”
“You don’t need to classify yourself,” grins Dirty. “Nature tagged you. Us two are going to dry-nurse this bunch of animated socks and underwear, so you might as well kiss ’em a fond fare-thee-well.”