Sybarite with narrow
suspicion.
"And never tell anybody, either," added the other, in deadly earnest.
George hesitated.
"Well, it's your _name_, ain't it?" he grumbled.
"That's not my fault. I'll be damned if I'll be called Perceval."
"And what if I keep on?"
"Then I'll make up my theatre party without you--and break your neck
into the bargain," said P. Sybarite intensely.
"You?" George laughed derisively. "You break _my_ neck? Can the
comedy, beau. Why, I could eat you alive, Perceval."
P. Sybarite got down from his stool. His face was almost colourless,
but for two bright red spots, the size of quarters, beneath either
cheek-bone. He was half a head shorter than the shipping clerk, and
apparently about half as wide; but there was sincerity in his manner
and an ominous snap in the unflinching stare of his blue eyes.
"Please yourself," he said quietly. "Only--don't say I didn't warn
you!"
"Ah-h!" sneered George, truculent in his amazement. "What's eatin'
you?"
"We're going to settle this question before you leave this warehouse.
I won't be called Perceval by you or any other pink-eared cross
between Balaam's ass and a laughing hyena."
Mr. Bross gaped with resentment, which gradually overcame his better
judgment.
"You won't, eh?" he said stridently. "I'd like to know what you're
going to do to stop me, Perce--"
P. Sybarite stepped quickly toward him and George, with a growl, threw
out his hands in a manner based upon a somewhat hazy conception of the
formulae of self-defence.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25