"Oh, I know those giants—flabby—flabby," said Mr. Reginald Butterwick; and he laughed a short, scoffing laugh which rang uneasy.
"He's not flabby!" cried Pollyooly indignantly. "He's tremendously strong. Why—why—when he heard you were coming he smashed that chair and kicked it into the corner just because he was annoyed."
Mr. Reginald Butterwick looked at the smallish fragments of the chair in the corner; and his face became the face of a quiet, respectable clerk.
"He did, did he?" he said coldly.
"Yes, and he wanted to tear you limb from limb. He said so," said Pollyooly.
"That's a game two can play at," said Mr. Reginald Butterwick; but his tone lacked conviction.
"Oh, he'd do it—quite easily," said Pollyooly confidently.
Mr. Reginald Butterwick stared at her and then at the sock. He opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again. Then he whistled a short, defiant whistle which went out of tune toward the end. Then he walked the length of the studio and back. Then he stopped and said to Pollyooly very fiercely:
"Do you think I've got nothing else to do but wait here all the afternoon for your precious guv'ner to come home to tea?"
"I don't know," said Pollyooly politely.