Chapter XIX

We took the iron-clad wave-tub home at ten,
And as we sat conversing on the deck
A certain Hester-street spaghetti-neck
Pipes through the darkness, "Who's yer ladyfren'?"
There might have been a hoe-down there and then
(That war-ship never came so near a wreck);
The dog-eye boy got just as pale as heck
And made a duck behind the trenches, when--

Pansy boiled up and clamped me by a flip.
"Nixie the kindergarten!" murmurs she.
"Gents," I replied out loud, "Get off the ship
And walk, or else nail down that repartee.
This yard of lace I'm holding, so to speak,
Is pinned on tight--or will be in a week."