"Of course you didn't, Ted. You don't know the world. It's a rough place, my boy—a rough place."
"It has delayed me some, because you didn't tell me first," I went on casually. "For instance, I want the bottle with the mixture made up according to the formula you worked out for the Texas contract. We have to start work on that job at seven." I paused and pretended to look through my papers.
"The Texas contract, eh? You know the formula—go ahead and make it." He hugged one knee and his eyes narrowed at me.
"No," I said, "that was your work."
"It's in your notes, Ted. Look it up."
"I took a copy of them away with me Saturday morning—I'll have to go down after them, if you don't tell me."
He sprang to his feet: "You lie, Ted, God damn you, you lie!" My hand reached for the telephone, then paused. I was puzzled about what my next move ought to be.
"Are you goin' to sit there and let me call you a liar?" he challenged. I turned around in my chair and looked him over. Excitement was working him up to a frenzy; his lips drooled. He wasn't a pleasant sight, but, curiously, I felt no physical fear; it was the critical business situation that alarmed me.
"I haven't time for a personal quarrel, Fougère," I said. "At present our business is to make good on the Texas contract. It's true that I have no copy of the notes you destroyed."
"Ah!" he exulted.