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"Cambridge American", shrieked the urchins; and a boisterous guffaw rattled the windows of the Sanctum as the college read and laughed. Lampy hung his head and slunk into the coziest armchair. "Quizzes?" sighed the Ibis.
"No," groaned Lampy tragically, "we've become funny." The Blot moaned and turned his face to the wall. "But I have a plan," murmured the Ibis at last. "We shall rent the walk of Plympton Street and cause to come forth a mighty geyser, that he who looks may wonder!" Lampy spat into the fire and then nodded his belled cap in glee.
Again they gathered, and this time to the sound of spouting water and the whispers of a thrilled populace. The Blot chuckled sleepily from under the table where he had been asleep the night before. "Nos adorant!" he said, for he liked to air his knowledge. But the jester kicked him as he thought that even Lampy can not always finish what he begins; and the Ibis latched the door as he recalled the fires he had kindled and the irate firemen who had threatened vengeance. Suddenly rivulets from the lake above began to seep through cracks and crannies.
"Immortales Di!" shrieked the Blot, and disappeared beneath the inrushing flood. The jester used his baton to paddle his chair to the Ibis, who was singing a last swan-song. As the weight of his bells capsized Lampy into the angry waters, the wise bird gurgled, "Though we may die to prove it, we shall never be funny".
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