Filed the transfer to-day."

"Neil Fraser? He's in my tale, too. Bought the S.Q.R.? Where did he get
the stuff?"

"Stuff?"

"Dough, the dirt, the wherewithal, in short the currency, dad."

"Barry, you are ruining your English," said his father.

"Yum-yum. Bully! Did you notice that, dad? I'm coming on, eh? One thing
I almost pray about, that I might become expert in slinging the modern
jaw hash. I'm appallingly correct in my forms of speech. But go on, dad.
I'm throwing too much vocalisation myself. You were telling me about
Neil Fraser. Give us the chorus now."

"I don't like it, boy," said his father, shaking his head, "and
especially in a clergyman."

"But that's where you are off, dad. The trouble is, when I come within
range of any of my flock all my flip vocabulary absolutely vanishes,
and I find myself talking like a professor of English or a maiden lady
school ma'am of very certain age."

"I don't like it, boy. Correct English is the only English for a
gentleman."

"I wonder," said the lad. "But I don't want to worry you, dad."