"Last we heard of him he was poundin' and squealin' to beat all blazes."
Yellin', 'Pull-ice!—pull-ice!'—whacking his leg, Spit gave an imitation of the prisoner—"and he's in there yet."
To Guy the situation was as droll as it was to his two friends. An old fellow trapped in his own shop! He was a Dago, Spit thought, which made the situation funnier. They laughed till, wearied with laughter, they threw themselves into armchairs, and lit their cigarettes.
Tom, who had laughed a little not at their joke but at them, felt obliged, in his own phrase, to butt in. He waited till a few puffs of tobacco had soothed them.
"Say, boys, don't you think the fun's gone far enough?"
The two guests turned and stared as if he had been a talking piece of furniture. Tad took his cigarette from his lips.
"What the hell business is it of yours?"
Tom kept his seat on the arm of the chair, speaking peaceably. "I suppose it isn't my business—except for the old man."
"What have you got to do with him? Is he your father?"