“Pickled,” he said.
“Always affects him that way,” said Cousin Egbert. “He’s got no head for it.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” I said, wishing to explain, but this I was not let to do.
“Don’t start anything like that here,” broke in the Tuttle person, “the police wouldn’t stand for it. Just keep quiet and remember you’re among friends.”
“Yes, sir; quite so, sir,” said I, being somewhat puzzled by these strange words. “I was merely——”
“Look out, Jeff,” warned Cousin Egbert, interrupting me; “he’s a devil when he starts.”
“Have you got a knife?” demanded the other suddenly.
“I fancy so, sir,” I answered, and produced from my waistcoat pocket the small metal-handled affair I have long carried. This he quickly seized from me.
“You can keep your gun,” he remarked, “but you can’t be trusted with this in your condition. I ain’t afraid of a gun, but I am afraid of a knife. You could have backed me off the board any time with this knife.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” asked Cousin Egbert.