THE MISCHIEF OF MEN
Barnstable seemed bound to behave like a bee in a bottle, which goes bumping its idiotic head without reason or cessation. On Monday morning after the polo game he was ushered into the chambers of Jack and Dick, both of whom were at home. He looked more excited than on the previous day, and moved with more alacrity. The alteration was not entirely to his advantage, for Mr. Barnstable was one of those unfortunates who appear worse with every possible change of manner.
"Good-morning, Mr. Fairfield," was the visitor's greeting. "Damme if I'll say good-morning to you, Mr. Neligage."
Jack regarded him with languid astonishment.
"Well," he said, "that relieves me of the trouble of saying it to you."
Barnstable puffed and swelled with anger.
"Damme, sir," he cried, "you may try to carry it off that way, but—"
"Good heavens, Mr. Barnstable," interrupted Fairfield, "what in the world do you mean?"
"Is it your general custom," drawled Jack, between puffs of his cigarette, "to give a Wild West show at every house you go into?"
Dick flashed a smile at his chum, but shook his head.