"Tommie's home! Tommie's home!" piped up old Grandpa, suddenly waking from his morning nap, and evidently not happy over his discovery.
"My name is Perkins," said the scoutmaster to Barber. He spoke courteously, but there was no cringing in his manner.
"Perkins, huh?" returned Barber, grinning. He was so close to the other that they all but touched. "And when did the cat bring you in?"
In very horror those lead-pipe legs of Johnnie's almost gave way beneath him, so that he clung to the table for support. "Oh!" he breathed.
But Mr. Perkins was smiling. "The cat brought me in just before he brought you in," he answered quietly.
The reply wrought an instant and startling change in Big Tom. The smile went from the bloodshot eyes, giving place to that white flash of rage. The heavy nose gave a quick twist. Every hair in the short beard seemed to bristle. "Now there's somebody in this room that's gittin' fresh," he observed; "and freshness from a kid is somethin' I can't stand. I don't mention no name, but! If it happens again"—he paused for emphasis—"I'll slap the fancy eyeglasses right off his face!"
There was a tense pause. The two at the center of the room were gazing straight at each other; and it seemed to Johnnie, wavering weakly against the table, that he would die from fear.
However, Mr. Perkins was not frightened. His hat was in his left hand. He let it drop to the floor. But he did not move back an inch, while those well-kept hands curled themselves into knots so hard that their knuckles were topped with white. "You wanted to see me?" he said.
"Y're wrong!" declared Big Tom. "I didn't want t' see y'. I had t' see y'."
"I note the distinction," returned Mr. Perkins.