"Of course, Mister Jingle, one's life history is certainly something to be treasured. Not to be treated lightly. But I assure you we—my company, that is—we will make certain that we adhere to the facts, in our fashion. There will be no unnec—"
Charlie Jingle grabbed the man's jacket-front with his left hand, his trouser-seat with the other, and, taking advantage of the man's total unpreparedness, threw him bodily out of the room, in the same motion kicking the door shut so hard, the glass cracked and a piece jumped out of the upper left hand corner.
Then Charlie Jingle stormed into his shop, where Tanker Bell awaited him.
When Tanker saw Charlie come into the room fuming mad, he shut off the reflex-machine and turned to watch him. Charlie Jingle paced back and forth in the room, in the small space between work-bench and wall. Suddenly he stopped, spun savagely to face Tanker. "Well? What the hell you lookin' at?"
Tanker Bell grinned. "You, Charlie. I like to watch you when you're mad."
"You do, eh?"
Tanker watched the rage build up to a good healthy flush on Charlie's skin.
"Jeez," Tanker jibed, "you look as red as those beets they sell over in the Old-Methods Market."
"Listen you! Just because you dropped that flashy character last night. Don't let it go to your head! You get me sore, by God, I'll have you piled up in the yard along with yesterday's rusty pugs!"