Like the boy in the story, Jerry could sing without stuttering. But when he began again to talk, his enunciation was worse than ever. "Buh-buh-buh-whistle for the crossing—but I ain't gug-gug-gargle gonna die. Nun-nun-not me. I gug-got rye whuh-whisky."
He put the bottle to his lips and went through all the motions of taking a hearty pull. "Fuf-funny," he said, holding the bottle at arm's length. "Wuh-wuh whisky lul-lul-lost all its taste."
"Take the cork out," suggested Guerilla.
"Cuc-cuc-cork?" smiled Jerry Fern. "I'll tut-take cuc-cork out."
So saying he smashed the bottle neck against the edge of the table, broke it short off, and drank without ceasing till the bottle was empty. He held the bottle against the light. He pressed it to his ear. He shook it. Then he tossed it nonchalantly over his shoulder, laid his cheek on the table and began to snore.
This would never do. Guerilla and Dawson shook him awake.
"Mush been shleep," mumbled Jerry, knuckling his eyes. "Gimme anuzzer dud-drink."
"Not yet," said Guerilla firmly. "Is Felix Craft a good friend of yours, Jerry?"
"Helluva good fuf-fuf-friend," was the instant reply.
"He doesn't pay you enough," prompted the carefully drilled Dawson.