"What is 'Dut'?" I asked severely.
"Dut is--is _a_ Dut," she answered, somewhat abashed by my want of
enthusiasm.
"A Dut is a baddix--a regular baddix," volunteered her brother.
Following a device familiar to philologists, he submitted concrete
examples.
"Two of those Sullivans are Duts, and so's Mrs. Sullivan sometimes when
she makes me split kindling and let the cat alone and--"
"That will do," I said; "that's enough of such talk. Come right into the
house."
"It ain't a baddix to say 'O Crackers!'" he observed tentatively, as he
followed us.
"It may not be for some people," I answered. "Nice people might say that
once in a great while, on week-days, if they never said any other
baddixes; but it's just as bad as any of them if you say all the
others--especially that horrible one--"
"Gamboge," he reminded me, brightly.
"Never mind saying it again!"
Then came a new uproar from the wagon-box. We perceived that the train
had moved off again, manned now entirely by Sullivans. They sought, I
detected, to produce in our minds an impression that the thing was going
better than ever. The toots of the Sullivan-throated whistle were louder
and more frequent, and the voice of the largest could be plainly heard.
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