He grinned. "Nevertheless, it's the general opinion that you are," said he.
I sat up very straight. "What's that?"
"You're in love," said he succinctly. It was like a bomb, and a bomb is the very last thing in succinctness. It comes to the point without palaver or conjecture, and it reduces havoc to a single synonymous syllable.
"You're crazy!" I gasped.
"And the workmen haven't anything at all to do with it," he pronounced emphatically. It was a direct charge. I distinctly felt called upon to refute it. But while I was striving to collect my thoughts he went on, somewhat arbitrarily, I thought: "You don't think we're all blind, do you, Mr. Smart?" "We?" I murmured, a curious dampness assailing me.
"That is to say, Britton, the Schmicks and myself."
"The Schmicks?" It was high time that I should laugh. "Ha! ha! The Schmicks! Good Lord, man,—the Schmicks." It sounded inane even to me, but, on my soul, it was all I could think of to say.
"The Schmicks are tickled to death over it," said he. "And so is Britton."
Collecting all the sarcasm that I could command at the instant, I inquired: "And you, Mr. Poopendyke,—are you not ticklish?"
"Very," said he.