"Ah!" He stumbled to the window, the placard still clutched in his hands, and peered at the woods as though seeking to pick out the single tree marked for his exacerbation. Then jerked himself around and faced the bearer of these tidings, glaring at him as though he were the author of them.
"G—— d—— you all!" he swore in a stifled tone.
"I beg pardon," said Peter with sharp politeness.
McGuire glanced at Peter and fell heavily into the nearest armchair. "It can't—be done," he muttered, half to himself, and then another oath. He was showing his early breeding now.
"I might 'a' known——," he said aloud, staring at the paper.
"Then it isn't a joke?" asked Peter, risking the question.
"Joke!" roared McGuire. And then more quietly, "A joke? I don't want it talked about," he muttered with a senile smile. And then, "You say a woman read it?"
"Yes."
"She must be kept quiet. I can't have all the neighborhood into my affairs."
"I think that can be managed. I'll speak to her. In the meanwhile if there's anything I can do——"