The intimidated rabbit rose protestingly at this prospect of violence; the scarred sportsman shot out of his chair eagerly, the lust of battle in his bloodshot eyes. The only person save Hugh who made no movement was Peterson, and he, very distinctly, chuckled. Whatever his failings, Peterson had a sense of humour....
It all happened so quickly. At one moment Hugh was apparently intent upon selecting a cigarette, the next instant the case had fallen to the floor; there was a dull, heavy thud, and the Boche crashed back, overturned a chair, and fell like a log to the floor, his head hitting the wall with a vicious crack. The bloodshot being resumed his seat a little limply; the intimidated bunny gave a stifled gasp and breathed heavily; Hugh resumed his search for a cigarette.
“After which breezy interlude,” remarked Peterson, “let us to business get.”
Hugh paused in the act of striking a match, and for the first time a genuine smile spread over his face.
“There are moments, Peterson,” he murmured, “when you really appeal to me.”
Peterson took the empty chair next to Lakington.
“Sit down,” he said shortly. “I can only hope that I shall appeal to you still more before we kill you.”
Hugh bowed and sat down.
“Consideration,” he murmured, “was always your strong point. May I ask how long I have to live?”
Peterson smiled genially.