He shut his mouth upon the words like a gin; put his hands firmly upon the desk, as does a man upon a rudder bar, and looked up at Mr Burden.
“Whole country stinks. You’ve known places that stink. Barking Level stinks. Out there, by God, the whole place stinks. Big as Yorkshire—I’ve been there, mind you, and you haven’t. Not a square yard but stinks!”
Indeed, Mr Abbott, in company with many who declaim against the corruption of our public life, would have done well to consider whether his language was not a greater offence against true morality than the actions and motives which he so recklessly ascribed to others.
“I came for advice, Abbott: not for abuse,” said Mr Burden.
He was thoroughly annoyed, and the whole purpose of his visit receded from him. He was annoyed by the self-satisfaction of his friend’s tone, by the excessive coarseness of his language, though it came from lips to which, I fear, coarseness was habitual. And he was, above all, annoyed to have thrust into the delicacy of his slight scruples this roaring objurgation.
“Who’s abusing you, man alive?” said Mr Abbott, in his great loud voice, staring in harmony with his tone.
Mr Burden, crossing his arms, and tapping the oilcloth with his left foot, answered, with quiet dignity, that Mr Abbott’s words implied an insult to his friends, to himself, and he might add, to the Empire.
Mr Abbott’s only reply was to draw his forefinger rapidly across his nose—a gesture to which he was most unfortunately addicted—to clench his fist, and to strike the table before him.
“The Empire?” said Mr Abbott, much as a man might say, “the giant Blunderbore?” Then he continued, more quietly: “Burden, you’re going mad.”
“Yes, the Empire,” said Mr Burden with some heat, and with more decision than he had yet shown. “I came for advice, Abbott, and, upon my soul, I think I’m more fit to give it you than you are to give it me.”