“Oh, excuse me,” he said. “I was going to correct it;” and he dropped another blot beside the first.
“Look here, Fish!” spoke Fowle, sharply, “I don’t want you here. Clear out!”
“You’re not very polite,” returned the visitor, unabashed, as he threw the pen, point downward, at the table, and picking up a couple of magazines and a book, began rearing a triangular steeple on the lamp chimney.
Birdie’s ire was waxing. He felt that he could not control himself much longer. “Will you go or not?” he demanded hotly.
“I’ll go when I get ready,” answered Fish, watching closely to see how high Birdie’s temperature was rising, taking care meanwhile to keep the table between them. He did not want to get Fowle into a dangerously pugnacious state; he merely wished to incite a good lively rough-house, in which the smashing of a few trifles would be unavoidable.
Instead, however, of reaching over the table for his tormentor or chasing him round it, Fowle took an unexpected course. He turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
CHAPTER XXII
HOW THE FISH WAS CAUGHT
Fish stood gazing with stupid astonishment at the closed door for some seconds after the sound of Birdie’s footsteps had died away. He was alone, with no check whatever upon his Hunnish craving for mauling and smashing. Yet mauling and smashing in se were not what delighted the heart of John Fish. He liked to stroll about a room when its occupants were at home, and goad them gradually into a destructive fray. He liked to do accidental damage under the eyes of the sufferers. In the corner near the door of Fowle’s bedroom had once stood a handsome and solid chair. By sitting in this chair whenever he came in, by tipping it back on its hind legs and wrenching it and twisting it with silent disregard of the protests of its owner, he had at last brought it to complete collapse—of course, unintentionally. In the embroidered scarf which hung from the mantelpiece were two big scorch-rimmed holes; here he had accidentally held a lighted cigarette behind him as he stood in front of the fireplace. He had enjoyed himself in this room, but always in the presence of spectators. The pleasure of laying waste dwindled to nothing, if the victims were not on hand to expostulate and mourn. He really was at a loss what to do with his liberty.
While he was still ruminating, the door flew open and Sam Archer rushed in. The new-comer threw his coat into a corner, turned up his cuffs, and opened the door. Then he spoke, briefly and to the point, “Get out!”