“Then don’t go belittlin’ Gibbon,” says Mr. Tidd.
“Have you read The Compleat Angler?” shouted Tecumseh.
“No,” says Mr. Tidd, more warlike than I thought he had it in him to be, “nor I hain’t read the Compleat Fly-catcher, nor the Compleat Cold-catcher, nor—?”
“Sir!” yelled Tecumseh, reaching as if to take off his coat and finding it was off. It sort of surprised him, I guess, but he got over it and shook his fist under Mr. Tidd’s nose. He quit talking educated and careful, too—just for that minute.
“Your Gibbon wasn’t nothin’ but a flea on Walton’s collar,” says he.
It looked like there was going to be a regular rumpus, so I sort of stepped up and says:
“How’s the printin’-press gettin’ along, Mr. Tidd?”
“Eh?” says he. “Printin’-press. What printin’-press?”
“This one,” says I.
“Um!” says he, rubbing his chin. “Calc’late I plum’ forgot it. What’s matter with it, Binney?”