“I don’t think he does,” said Finch quite unconvinced by Tony’s more generous reasoning. “I don’t think so at all. He’d strike in the dark. I don’t trust him.”
“Reggie never would either,” Tony mused for the moment; then more cheerfully, “But come, let’s talk of something pleasant. How——Why, hello, Ted.” This last exclamation was directed at a drab comical face and ruffled head of mouse-colored hair that thrust itself through the half-open doorway. “Come in, you duffer.”
“Didn’t know you were busy,” said Teddy Lansing, entering.
“Well, I ain’t,” said Tony.
Finch rose from his seat on the window-sill and sidled toward the door. “I guess I’ll be going,” he said to Deering, and bolted.
“Now, what the deuce is the matter with him?” exclaimed Tony. “He shies at his shadow.”
“Pah—Pinch!” Teddy spat with emphasis at the waste paper basket.
Tony looked up quickly, but restrained the impulse of annoyance. “What’s the matter with Finch?”
“Oh, nothing particular. I just don’t like him. He’s a sneak. But there, I beg your pardon, Tony,” Teddy caught himself, remembering the cause of Deering’s quarrel with Wilson. “I suppose you will stand up for him. I don’t know much about him; but he got on my nerves last spring to a degree. Guess he’s bug-house.”
“He has had a blamed hard time here—that accounts for it. But I don’t think he is a sneak. If we had given him half a chance——.”