“I told you to out that out,” he snarled.
“Sorry,” I said suavely. “But I have a sort of premonition that I shall go right on rapping. And—er—excuse me for asking a personal question—what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll—” he began explosively, proving, by his inability to conclude the remark, that he thought in henids.
“Yes?” I encouraged. “Just what, pray?”
“I’ll have the Warden here,” he said lamely.
“Do, please. A most charming gentleman, to be sure. A shining example of the refining influences that are creeping into our prisons. Bring him to me at once. I wish to report you to him.”
“Me?”
“Yes, just precisely you,” I continued. “You persist, in a rude and boorish manner, in interrupting my conversation with the other guests in this hostelry.”
And Warden Atherton came. The door was unlocked, and he blustered into my cell. But oh, I was so safe! He had done his worst. I was beyond his power.
“I’ll shut off your grub,” he threatened.