"Hi!" he shouted, brandishing his flail at the New Yorker. "Want a
job?"
Barnes looked at his watch. He still had an hour and a half to wait
before he could call up O'Dowd. He strolled across the lot and joined
the perspiring comedian.
"You seem to have a personal grudge against that carpet," he said,
moving back a few yards as Dillingford laid on so manfully that the
dust arose in clouds.
"Every time I land I say: 'Take that, darn you!' And it pleases me to
imagine that with every crack Mr. Putnam Jones lets out a mighty
'Ouch!' Now listen! Didn't that sound a little like an ouch?" Mr.
Dillingford rubbed a spot clean on the handle of the flail and pressed
his lips to it. "Good dog!" he murmured tenderly. "Bite him! (Whack!)
Now, bite him again! (Whack!) Once more! (Whack!) Good dog! Now, go
lie down awhile and rest." He tossed the flail to the ground and,
mopping his brow, turned to Barnes. "If you want a real treat, go into
the cellar and take a look at Bacon. He is churning for butter. Got a
gingham apron on and thinks he's disguised. He can't cuss because old
Miss Tilly is reading the first act of a play she wrote for Julia
Marlowe seven or eight years ago.
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