“But what’s he done?”
“He’s a fool,” said Micklethwaite with his mouth full, evidently annoyed. “Ugh,” he said as soon as he was free to do so.
I waited a little while.
“What’s he done?” I ventured.
Micklethwaite did not answer for a moment and crammed things into his mouth vindictively, bread and all sorts of things. Then leaning towards me in a confidential manner he made indignant noises which I could not clearly distinguish as words.
“Oh!” I said, when he had done.
“Yes,” said Micklethwaite. He swallowed and then poured himself wine—splashing the tablecloth.
“He had me for an hour very nearly the other day.”
“Yes?” I said.
“Silly fool,” said Micklethwaite.