"And never tell anybody, either," added the other, in deadly earnest.
George hesitated.
"Well, it's your name, ain't it?" he grumbled.
"That's not my fault. I'll be damned if I'll be called Perceval."
"And what if I keep on?"
"Then I'll make up my theatre party without you—and break your neck into the bargain," said P. Sybarite intensely.
"You?" George laughed derisively. "You break my neck? Can the comedy, beau. Why, I could eat you alive, Perceval."
P. Sybarite got down from his stool. His face was almost colourless, but for two bright red spots, the size of quarters, beneath either cheek-bone. He was half a head shorter than the shipping clerk, and apparently about half as wide; but there was sincerity in his manner and an ominous snap in the unflinching stare of his blue eyes.
"Please yourself," he said quietly. "Only—don't say I didn't warn you!"
"Ah-h!" sneered George, truculent in his amazement. "What's eatin' you?"