"O you--!" said George; and checked to enjoy a rude giggle.
At this particular moment a mind-reader would have been justified in
regarding P. Sybarite with suspicion. But beyond taking the pen from
between his teeth he didn't move; and he said nothing at all.
The shipping clerk presently controlled his mirth sufficiently to
permit unctuous enunciation of the following cryptic exclamation:
"O you Perceval!"
P. Sybarite turned pale.
"You little rascal!" continued George, brandishing the envelope.
"You've been cunning, you have; but I've found you out at last....
_Per_-ce-val!"
Over the cheeks of P. Sybarite crept a delicate tint of pink. His eyes
wavered and fell. He looked, and was, acutely unhappy.
"You're a sly one, you are," George gloated--"always signin' your name
'P. Sybarite' and pretendin' your maiden monaker was 'Peter'! But now
we know you! Take off them whiskers--Perceval!"
A really wise mind-reader would have called a policeman, then and
there; for mayhem was the least of the crimes contemplated by P.
Sybarite. But restraining himself, he did nothing more than
disentangle his legs, slip down from the tall stool, and approach Mr.
Bross with an outstretched hand.
"If that letter's for me," he said quietly, "give it here, please."
"Special d'liv'ry--just come," announced George, holding the letter
high, out of easy reach, while he read in exultant accents the
traitorous address: "'Perceval Sybarite, Esquire, Care of Messrs.
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