he bellowed.
“Now, l-l-listen, T-T-Tom,” insisted Perry. “I t-t-tell you the bunch has g-g-got Grant Adams and the old man out there in the g-g-golf l-links and they heard you were h-h-here and they s-s-sent me to tell you they were g-g-going to g-g-give him all the d-d-degrees and they w-w-want to t-t-tie a s-s-sign on him when they t-t-turn him loose and h-h-head him for Om-m-ma-h-ha–”
“B-b-better h-h-h-head him for h-h-hell,” mocked the Judge.
“Well, they’ve g-got an iron b-b-band they’ve b-b-bound on h-h-him and they’ve got a b-b-board and some t-t-tar and they w-w-want a m-motto.”
The Judge reached for his fountain pen in his white vest and when the waiter had brought a sheet of paper, he scribbled while he sang sleepily:
“Oh, there was a man and he could do,
He could do–he could do;
“Here,” he pushed the paper to Perry, who saw the words:
“Get on to the Prince of Peace,
Big Boss of the Democracy of Labor.”
“That’s k-k-kind of t-t-tame, don’t y-y-you think?” said Kyle.
“That’s all right, Kyle–anyway, what I’ve written goes: