He stood watching while George Atkinson spun around, dark eyes flashing, hair tousled. There was a two days' growth of beard darkening Atkinson's face.
"Why, George," Loveral said, swiftly examining the litter of metal and wood which was spread over a table behind Atkinson. There was a home-made hammer in Atkinson's hand. "What have we here, George?"
"Something for you," Atkinson said, tightening his fingers about the handle of the hammer.
Loveral grinned his famous Loveral grin. "That's fine. What could it be?"
"None of your damned business."
"George," Loveral said, his smile still white but his eyes narrow and quick.
The woman was behind them. Her voice screeched. "George, I told you. Why didn't you listen, George? You should have listened to me. You—"
Loveral held up a hand, still watching Atkinson. "Now tell me, George, what is it you're making for me?"
Atkinson raised the hammer slightly.