the voice, as it were, of a sinister, tin manikin galvanized
into convulsive song. The words grew
audible in broken phrases:

...was a lucky man,
Rip van Winkle... grummmble
...never saw the women
At Coney Island swimming...

General Jackson sat abruptly on his haunches,
and lifted a long, quavering protest. As the cylinder
went round and round, and the shrill performance
continued, the dog's howling grew wilder; it
reached a point where it broke into a hoarse cough,
then again it recommenced lower in the scale, carrying
over a gamut of indescribable, audible misery.

Gordon slapped his leg in acute enjoyment. "The
General's a regular opera singer, a high-rolling canary.
Go after it... a regular concert dog."

"Gordon," Lettice said, in a small, strained
voice. Apparently he had not heard her. "Gordon,"
she repeated more loudly. She had dropped
the piece of sewing, her hands were clenched, her face
wet and pallid. "Gordon!" she cried, her voice cutting
through the sound of the phonograph and the
howling dog; "stop it, do you hear! I'll go crazy!
Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!"

He silenced the machine in genuine surprise.
"Why, everything works you up tonight. I thought

[[167]]

p166 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p167w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p168

v?