“Is it so bad as that?” he queried. “I knew, of course, you were hit, but I hoped it was only for a small amount.”
“Shut up, Mattison!” exclaimed Colloden. “If you haven’t any appreciation of propriety, you can at least keep quiet.”
“Oh, I don’t know——”
“Don’t you?” said Colloden, quietly, reaching across and grasping him by the collar. “Think again,—and think quickly!”
A sickly grin, half of surprise and half of anger, overspread Mattison’s face.
“Can’t you take a little pleasantry?” he asked.
“We don’t like your pleasantries any more than we like you, and that is not at all. Take my advice and mend your tongue.” He shook him, much as a terrier does a rat, and jammed him back into his chair. “Now, either be good or go home,” he admonished.
Mattison was weak with anger—so angry, indeed, that he was helpless either to stir or to make a sound. The others ignored him—and, when he 30 was a little recovered, he got up and went slowly from the room.
“It wasn’t a particularly well bred thing to do,” observed Colloden, “but just the same it was mighty pleasant. If it were not for the law, I’d have broken his neck.”
“He isn’t worth the exertion, Roderick,” Croyden remarked. “But I’m obliged, old man. I enjoyed it.”