finished Tom. "Say, Songbird, how much is that poetry by the yard—or do you sell it by the ton?" he went on.
At the sound of Tom's voice the would-be poet gave a start. But he quickly recovered. He scowled for a moment and then took on a look of resignation.
"You'v spoiled one of the best thoughts I ever had," he said.
"Don't you believe it, Songbird," answered Tom. "I've heard you make up poetry worth ten times that. Don't you remember that litthe 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.
