This item incensed Pendleton beyond measure; he threw the paper aside and stormed up and down the room.
"Of all the blatant wretched twaddle I ever did read," he exclaimed, "this is positively the worst. Why, the rag would have the police arrest Edyth—arrest her for—"
"Well," demanded a sharp, aggressively pitched voice, "what for you make-a da blame, eh? Da cops pinch-a Spatola, and for why, eh? Because he's da wop, da Ginney, da Dago and got-a no friends."
At the first word Pendleton had whirled about in astonishment, and faced the speaker, who stood in the doorway, pointing with one hand in the attitude of melodrama.
"Well," asked the young man, "who the deuce are you?"
By way of an answer the other burst into a laugh that showed his brilliant teeth; then he threw off his battered soft hat and gayly colored handkerchief, after which he sank into the chair which Pendleton had lately vacated.
"Pen," said he, in an altered voice, "if you appreciate my friendship at all, give me one of the blackest cigars in the case over there."
Pendleton stared for a moment; then a grin crept over his face and he said:
"Oh, it's you, is it?" He went to the cabinet and took out a box. "Here's a brand that looks like black Havana," he said. "And now, what the dickens are you doing in that rig?"
"I've been taking a long ride in the country—on a motor cycle," answered Ashton-Kirk, crossing his shabbily clothed legs and striking a match. "Any time you feel disinclined to face your meals, Pen, I recommend you heartily to do the same. It is a greater bracer. At this moment I really believe I could do complete justice to even the very best culinary thoughts of our friend, Dr. Mercer."