Spike stared in mute amazement, then flushed painfully.
"You mean—you an' me—ain't goin' t' be pals no longer?" he asked wistfully.
"That's what!" nodded the Spider, without lifting his scowling gaze from the sponge. "Kid, I ain't no Gold-medal Sunday-school scholar nor I ain't never won no prizes at any Purity League conference, but there's some guys too rotten even f'r me!"
"But I—I—saved his life, didn't I?"
"That ain't nothin' t' blow about after what you did in that wood. Oh, wake up an' see just how dirty an' rotten you are!"
Spike rose and stood, his hands tight-clenched, and though he tried to frown, he couldn't hide the pitiful twitching of his lips nor the quaver in his voice.
"I guess you mean you're goin' t' give me th' throw-down?"
"Well," answered the Spider, scowling at the sponge in his hand, "there's jest two or three things as I ain't got no use for, an' one of 'em's—murder!"
Hereupon Spike shrank away, and the Old Un, reaching out stealthily, opened the door of the limousine while the Spider fell to work again, splashing more than ever. Thus as Spike crept away with head a-droop, the Old Un, all unnoticed, stole after him, his old eyes very bright and birdlike, and, as he followed, keeping in the shade of hedge and tree as much as possible, he whispered a word to himself over and over again:
"Lorgorramighty!"