Linklater was at home. He sat in an armchair with his back to the door. In his hand he held a red-hot poker, the end of which swayed gently backwards and forwards not more than two inches from the paralysed countenance of Master Butler, who, cut off from retreat by an intervening table, and rigid with terror, was staring helplessly at the glowing point with the thoroughness of a fascinated rabbit.
III
Hearing the door open, Linklater looked round. Almost simultaneously a brown and muscular hand reached over his right shoulder and whipped the poker from his grasp.
"You can clear out, Butler," said Pip.
Master Butler departed like a panic-stricken rocket, and Pip and Linklater were left alone.
Linklater eyed his friend furtively, with an uneasy grin. He knew that he had to deal with a boy who was his superior in every way, and the fact that the boy was his best friend did not make the coming interview appear any less unpleasant.
Pip sat down and used the poker, which he still held in his hand, to burn elaborate holes in his host's mantelpiece. At length he remarked,—
"Link, old man, you are making a bally ass of yourself."
"Thanks!" said Linklater laconically.
"You are putting me in an awful hole over it, too."