"Don't you believe it, Songbird," answered Tom. "I've heard you make
up poetry worth ten times that. Don't you remember that little sonnet
you once composed, entitled 'Who Put Ink in Willie's Shoes?' It was
great, grand, sublime!"

"I never wrote such a sonnet!" cried Songbird. "Ink in shoes, indeed!
Tom, you don't know real poetry when you see it!"

"That's a fact, I don't. But, say, what's on the carpet, as the iceman
said to the thrush?"

"Nothing. I thought I'd write a few verses, that's all. Thought you
were going to town with Sam and Dick?"

"Can't." And once again Tom had to tell his story. He had not yet
finished when Songbird gave an exclamation.

"It fits in!" he cried.

"Fits in? What?" asked Tom.

"What I heard a while ago."

"What did you hear?"

"Heard Flockley, Koswell and Larkspur talking together. Koswell said
he had fixed you, and that you were having a bad half hour with the
president."