Ken turned the handle on full.
“Kel, a first-rate stewing will be good for your daily grouch.”
To the accompaniment of Raymond's threats he turned the second handle.
“Trace, you little poll-parrot, you will throw perfume on me? Now roast!”
The heads of the imprisoned boys began to jerk and bob around, and their faces to take on a flush. Ken leisurely surveyed them and then did an Indian war-dance in the middle of the room.
“Here, let me out! Ken, you know how delicate I am,” implored Raymond.
“I couldn't entertain the idea for a second,” replied Ken.
“I'll lick you!” yelled Raymond.
“My lad, you've got a brain-storm,” returned Ken, in grieved tones. “Not in the wildest flights of your nightmares have you ever said anything so impossible as that.”
“Ken, dear Ken, dear old Peggie,” cried Trace, “you know I've got a skinned place on my hip where I slid yesterday. Steam isn't good for that, Worry says. He'll be sore. You must let me out.”