"Ain't it enough to make a man sick?" demanded Cai Tamblyn, looking up. "And I got to speak this truck, day in an' day out."
"Who wrote it?"
"Hansombody. Oh, I ain't denyin' he was well paid. But when I see'd Miss Marty this very afternoon, unwrappin' the bust with tears in her eyes, an' her husband standin' by as modest as Moll at a christenin', and him the richer by thousands—"
"WHAT?"
The Major, despite his hurt, had risen on his elbow. Cai Tamblyn, too, bounced up.
"The Mayor, I'm talkin' of—Dr. Hansombody," he stammered, gating into the invalid's face in dismay.
So, for ten slow seconds or so, they eyed one another. Speech began to work in Cai Tamblyn's throat, but none came. He cast one bewildered, incredulous, horror-stricken glance back from the face on the bed to the fatuously smiling face on the washhand stand, and with that—for the Major had picked up his pillow and was poising to hurl it—flung his person between them, cast both arms about the bust, lifted it, and tottered from the room.