“No?” said Hawkins between his teeth.
“Folly—pure folly,” grunted the old gentleman. “No reason for it—no reason under the sun.”
Hawkins at least reserves family dissensions for family occasions. He held his peace and his tongue.
“Yes, sir,” persisted Blodgett, “everything else out of the question, the house might catch fire to-night, and your entire stock of painted babies go up in smoke. Then where'd they be? Eh?”
“See here,” said Hawkins, goaded into speech, “you just keep your mind easy on that score at least, will you, papa, dear?”
“What's that? What's that?”
“This house isn't going up in smoke,” went on the inventor tartly. “You can take my word for it.”
“Isn't, eh?” jeered the elderly Blodgett with his nasty sneering little chuckle. “And how do you know it's not? Eh? Smarter men than you, my boy, and in better built houses have——”
“Look here! This particular place isn't going to burn, because——” Hawkins rapped out.
“What isn't going to burn, Herbert?” inquired Mrs. Hawkins, with a cold, warning glance at her husband as she perceived that hostilities were in progress. “Is he teasing you again, papa?”