“Me? No worse than you!” denied Mr. Lock.
“You must ’ave got to scrapping,” surmised Mr. Tridge. “Did you win or lose?”
“What do you mean?” sourly questioned Mr. Lock. “I never scrapped with no one. I was—I was imitating canaries. Canaries don’t scrap.”
“’Ow did you get them two awful big black eyes, then?” wonderingly queried Mr. Tridge.
“Black eyes?” murmured Mr. Lock, perplexed. “Black eyes?”
“Black and red and green and yaller and blue and purple and horange,” supplemented Mr. Tridge.
Mr. Lock crossed to the little mirror which hung on the shelf.
“So I ’ave!” he said, in blank surprise. “So I ’ave! I thought it was only the front part of my ’eadache!”
“Two real beauties!” declared Mr. Tridge. “You must ’ave got nasty over something, Peter. Why didn’t you leave it to me to do your scrapping for you, like we always does? I shouldn’t ’ave got ’it like that, you can bet!”
Mr. Lock, disturbed by the discovery, sat down on the edge of his bunk and shook his head, an action which caused him such discomfort that he lay down again.