ball by one practising the art of driving. So light and fluffy was it that the most tremendous drive would only send it a few feet.
"There's nothing in the story about Goliar choosing the pebbles," remarked the Vice, as he dropped the ball into his ammunition bag. He too had had a bright idea on the subject of ammunition—and anyhow the President had said that Goliath was going to duck. . . .
The antagonists faced each other.
"Bung off, Lanky," remarked David. "Hop it. Your face will scare my sheep."
"And who might you be, my lad?" inquired Goliath, adding in sepulchral tones,
"Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum,
I smell the blood of
An Is-rael-um."
"My name and address is David, the son of Jesse," was the simple reply.
"Jessie?" queried Goliath derisively. "What a silly name. I had a doll named Jessie, she was an ass. Is your father a woman?"
"My Daddy could do yours any day, ol' Goliar; and you're a Phyllis Tine yourself,"
