“Well, what?”
“I’ll make it so blamed hot for you you’ll wish you’d never been born,” grated Mr. Gooch, shaking his bony finger in his nephew’s face.
Observing this physical symptom of animosity, the Messrs. Sikes and Link hastily stepped forth from the doorway and advanced toward the car.
“Keep your temper, Oliver,” called out the former warningly. “Hang on to it!”
“Don’t forget yourself, boy,” cried Mr. Link.
Mr. Gooch glanced at the two old men.
“You stay away from here, you meddling old—” he started to shout.
“Blow your police whistle, Silas,” urged Mr. Sikes. “Blow it! We’ll see if—”
“Never mind, Uncle Joe,” interrupted Oliver, with an airy wave of his hand. “No need of a cop, is there, Uncle Horace?”
“Not at present,” replied his uncle grimly. “Later on we may need one—but not just now.”