Harvey Hamilton had a quick temper and resented the manner of the other.
“I don’t; I asked you if he’s the chap.”
“What chap?”
“The one that has a shop a half mile away, where he makes airships.”
“See here, young man,” said the landlord, so nettled that he suspended mastication for the moment and looked threateningly at his questioner; “you’re getting too flip; I didn’t say that long-legged galoot does nothing of the kind; I asked you if he did.”
“And I answer that of all fools that pretend to have a grain of sense you’re entitled to the medal.”
And with flushed face Harvey sprang from his chair, stalked out of the room and banged the door behind him. Perhaps he should not have been so rude, but surely he had great provocation. Undecided what he ought to do next, he went up-stairs to his room. Dawson had not yet risen to the dignity of gas, but he lighted the kerosene lamp that stood on the little bureau, and sat down in one of the two chairs with which his apartment was furnished.
“It’s provoking that I should hit upon the biggest chump in this place to question, when probably every one else could tell me what I want to know—Come in!”
The last was in response to a knock on the door, which was pushed open the next moment, and the young woman who had served in the dining-room stepped within.