“Say, you got a gall!” ejaculated the Hawk.
“You bet your life I have!” flung out MacVightie. “Now then, my bucko, what are you doing, here?”
“Say,” said the Hawk, as though obsessed with but a single idea, “say, you got a gall! You got a gall, busting into a fellow's room and asking him what he's doing there! Say, maybe you might answer the same question yourself—eh? What are you doing here?”
“Your room, is it?” snapped MacVightie.
“Sure it's my room!” replied the Hawk, a little tartly.
“How long you been here?”
“'Bout a week”—the Hawk was growing ungracious.
“Boarding here?”
“Yes.”
“Where'd you come from?” MacVightie was clipping off his words. “What do you do for a living?”