Distin waved the tin box away majestically, and turned to Vane.
“I said, sir, goo—gloo—goog—”
He stepped from his place to the window in a rage, for his voice had suddenly become most peculiar; and as the others saw him thrust a white finger into his mouth and tear out something which he tried to throw away but which refused to be cast off, they burst into a simultaneous roar of laughter, which increased as they saw the angry lad suck his finger, and wipe it impatiently on his handkerchief.
“Don’t you give me any of your filthy stuff again, you. Macey,” he cried.
“All right,” said the culprit, wiping the tears out of his eyes, and taking the tin box from his pocket. “Have a bit more?”
Distin struck the tin box up furiously, sending it flying open, as it performed an arc in the air, and distributing fragments of the hard-baked saccharine sweet.
“Oh, I say!” cried Macey, hastily stooping to gather up the pieces. “Here, help, Gil, or we shall have Syme in to find out one of them by sitting on it.”
“Look here, sir,” cried Distin, across the table to Vane, who sat, as last comer, between him and the door, “I said did you mean that as an insult?”
“Oh, rubbish!” replied Vane, a little warmly now; “don’t talk in that manner, as if you were somebody very big, and going to fight a duel.”
“I asked you, sir, if you meant that remark as an insult,” cried Distin, “and you evade answering, in the meanest and most shuffling way. I was under the impression when I came down to Greythorpe it was to read with English gentlemen, and I find—”