even as I worked I couldn't help but make up a few lines. They run like this:
"All wrapt in flames, behold our craft!
She'll plough the main no more!
Her gallant crew may well shed tears"
"She's burnt out to the core!"
finished Tom. "Only that isn't true, for the Thistle wasn't burnt to the core in fact, the captain says she was burnt very little thanks to the unswerving devotion of the gallant band of Brill fire-fighters who, undaunted by the terrifying perils of the horrible occasion succeeded, after almost superhuman endeavors, in quelling"
"Great hambones! Tom's sprung a leak!" interrupted Sam. "Tom, put on your low speed, or you'll run away with yourself."
"Ha, wretch! to interrupt such a superb flow of oratory!" cried the fun-loving Rover, in assumed grieved tones.
"As if you didn't interrupt my poetry," came ruefully from Songbird. "The next time I—er—recite I'll see to it that you are not around."
"Don't do it, Birdie, I beg of you. I wouldn't miss your verses for a quart of freckles."
"Ashton—and the telegraph office!" sang out Dick. "Who is going along?" And the touch of hard feelings between Tom and Songbird was
