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“Ain’t she her own aunt?” hazarded Mr. Wopp, abstractedly thrusting his hammer into his boot top and scratching his bald head with a pair of pincers. The work went on, each length at the first possible opportunity resuming its state of strict neutrality and refusing to be drawn into negotiations. “‘Place there the boy,’ the tyrant said.
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“This is Evelyn Dorr, and Vilette, her sister,” Mrs. Bennett was saying. Mr. Wopp in the meantime had seated himself on the other side of Betty and was busy taking notes on the dance then in progress. “It was so interestin” he said, “and the poetry might come in handy.” The dance was called “Captain Jinks.” “I haf learn for gifing avay already, but I feel more as rich dan if they haf gif to me. How ist dat?” Max asked himself, not knowing, this little German lad so lately come to America, that he had discovered one of the profoundest secrets of the universe. A three-legged rooster appeared. And Sir Thomas Katzenstein, according to schedule, roamed his box in great agitation, though in fine form, impressively carrying out the label on his cage, “Baby Royal Bengal Tiger.”.
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