"Huh!" Mr. Driscoll ran his pudgy forefinger easefully about between his collar and his neck, and removing his spectacles mopped his purple face. "What's this funny business you've been up to now?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" Tom demanded, his irritation mounting.
"You ought to read the papers and keep posted on what you do. I just saw a Star. There's half a page of your face, and about a pint of red ink."
Tom groaned, and his jaws clamped ragefully.
"What I read gave me the impression you'd been having a sort of private Fourth of July celebration," Mr. Driscoll pursued.
Tom turned on the contractor half savagely. "See here! I don't know what you came here for, but if it was for this kind of talk—well, you can guess how welcome you are!"
Mr. Driscoll emitted a little chuckling sound, or Tom thought for an instant he did. But a glance at that sour face, with its straight pouting mouth, corrected Tom's ears.
"Now, what was your fool idea in blowing up the Avon?"
Tom uprose wrathfully. "Do you mean to say you believe the lies those blackguards told this morning?"