"Well," says I, "don't he--er----Is it a dummy, or a live one? Got a name, ain't it?" "Why, sure!" says Snick. "That's Hermy. Hey you, Hermy, shake hands with Professor McCabe!" "Howdy," says I, makin' ready to pass the grip. But Hermy ain't in a sociable mood, it seems. "Oh, bother!" says he, lookin' around kind of disgusted and not noticin' the welcomin' hand at all. "I don't want to stay here. I ought to be home, dressing for dinner." And say, that gives you about as much idea of the way he said it, as you'd get of an oil paintin' from seein' a blueprint. I can't put in the pettish shoulder wiggle that goes with it, or make my voice behave like his did. It was the most ladylike voice I ever heard come from a heavyweight; one of these reg'lar "Oh-fudge-Lizzie-I-dropped-my-gum" voices. And him with a chest on him like a swell front mahog'ny bureau! "Splash!" says I. "You mean, mean thing! So there!" "Don't mind what he says at all, Shorty," says Snick. "You wait! I'll fix him!" and with that he walks up to Hermy, shakes his finger under his nose, and proceeds to lay him out. "Now what did I tell you; eh, Hermy?" says Snick. "One lump of sugar in your tea--no pie--and locked in your room at eight-thirty. Oh, I mean it! You're here to behave yourself. Understand? Take your fingers off that necktie! Don't slouch against the wall there, either! You might get your coat dusty. Dress for dinner! Didn't I wait fifteen minutes while you fussed with your hair? And do you think you're going to go through all that again? You're dressed for dinner, I tell you! But you don't get a bit unless you do as you're told! Hear?" "Ye-e-es, sir," sniffles Hermy. Honest, it was a little the oddest exhibition I ever saw. Why, he would make two of Snick, this Hermy would, and he has a pair of shoulders like a truck horse. Don't ever talk to me about chins again, either! Hermy has chin enough for a trust buster; but that's all the good it seems to do him. "You ain't cast the hypnotic spell over him, have you, Snick?" says I. "Hypnotic nothing!" says Snick. "That ain't a man; it's only a music box!" "A which?" says I. "Barytone," says Snick. "Say, did you ever hear Bonci or Caruso or any of that mob warble? No? Well, then I'll have to tell you. Look at Hermy there. Take a good long gaze at him. And--sh-h-h! After he's had one show at the Metropolitan he'll have that whole bunch carryin' spears." "Is this something you dreamed, Snick," says I, "or is it a sample of your megaphone talk?" "You don't believe it, of course," says he. "That's what I brought him up here for. Hermy, turn on the Toreador business!" "Eh?" says I; then I sees Hermy gettin' into position to cut loose. "Back up there! Shut it off! What do I know about judgin' singers on the hoof? Why, he might be all you say, or as bad as I'd be willin' to bet; but I wouldn't know it. And what odds does it make to me, one way or another?"