“You bet it is. I loathe mustaches.”
At this point Melvin’s questions seemed to have run out, for he lapsed into a meditative silence which lasted at least a minute. Then he suddenly jumped up, grabbed his quiet visitor by the shoulder, and glared threateningly into his eyes. “Come now, stop it and tell me the truth! You’re just trying to jolly me.”
“It’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” said Varrell, nodding his head in solemn accentuation of each phrase. “Go and sit down!”
Melvin dropped back into his chair.
“Do you remember,” continued Varrell, “when we went up to Boston together last week and I suddenly burst into a laugh? You asked me what was the matter, and I told you that a funny story had just come to me. The funny story was told by a drummer facing us three seats ahead. You certainly can’t have forgotten the time when we serenaded Masters, and he came out on his front porch and spoke, with the red fire playing on his face and the fellows yelling and blowing tin horns? Wasn’t I the only one who knew what he said?”
“That’s right,” said Melvin.
“And didn’t you see how I watched Flanahan this afternoon? I had to, I can tell you; those little short sentences are hard to get.”
“I suppose I’ll have to believe you,” said Melvin, reluctantly.
“You would have done it long ago, if you weren’t so blessed ignorant. Hello, Phil!”
Poole nodded cordially and sat down.