"No, I do not hear. Take the nail from your mouth."
"Take it for me! I haven't a hand."
Max left the coffee-pot with some reluctance, crossed the room, and with the seriousness known only to the enthusiastic amateur in house-furnishing, removed the nail from Blake's mouth.
"It is a shame! You will spoil your nice teeth."
"What is a tooth or two in such a cause! Have you a handkerchief?"
"Yes."
"Then, for the love of God, wipe my forehead for me!"
Still without a smile, Max produced a handkerchief that had obviously played the rôle of duster at an earlier hour and, passing it over Blake's face, removed the dew of heat, leaving in its place a long black streak.
"Thanks! I'm cooler now—though probably dirtier!"
"Dirtier! On the contrary, mon ami! You have the most artistic scar of dust that makes you as interesting as a German officer! Oh!" His voice rose to a cry of sharp distress, and he ran back to the fire. "Oh, my coffee! My beautiful coffee! Oh, Ned, it has over boiled!"