“Greer!” he snapped with all his pent-up irritation in his voice, “will you never stop mouthing that beastly tune?”
The stolid fellow looked around in the blankest surprise. “Tune?”
“No, groaning, wheezing! You spew it out all day long! What do you think you are? A tree frog, a locust, a katydid? Doesn't your mouth get tired? Does that hideous tinkle go through your hollow head all day long?”
The Englishman's long face was a dusky red. He had not intended to be insulting when he first spoke, but all the sarcastic and abusive epithets that he had thought during the long super-heated days of nerve-racked listening, now rushed out like steam from a boiler.
Farnol stared straight at the nervous fellow. “Are you insane?” he asked in wondering contempt,
“A wonder I'm not—with that diabolical wheezy spewing boring in my brain—you never stop a minute—over and over——”
“Have you run out of stolen whiskey again?” interrupted Greer with cool malice.
The whole crew came to hushed attention.
