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"Ess," said Miss Pratt. "Do Flopit again. Be Flopit!" "Berp-werp! Berp-werp-werp." And within the library an agonized man writhed and muttered: "WORD! WORD! WORD " This hoarse repetition had become almost continuous. ... But out on the porch, that little, jasmine-scented bower in Arcady where youth cried to youth and golden heads were haloed in the moonshine, there fell a silence.
First he'd lean his head way over on his shoulder like this look, mamma! an' then he'd lean it way over the other shoulder, an' every time he'd do it he'd bark. 'Berp-werp! he'd say, mamma, just like that, only not loud at all. He said, 'Berp-werp! BERP-WERP-WERP! You could tell he meant it for barkin', but it wasn't very good, mamma. What you think he meant, mamma?"
Ladies and 'entlemen, imitations of darlin' Flopit by ickle boy Baxter." "Berp-werp! Berp-werp!" came the voice of William Sylvanus Baxter. And in the library Plutarch's Lives moved convulsively, while with writhing lips Mr. Parcher muttered to himself. "More, more!" cried Miss Pratt, clapping her hands. "Do it again, ickle boy Baxter!" "Berp-werp! Berp-werp-werp!" "WORD!" muttered Mr. Parcher.
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