"We're going to settle this question before you leave this warehouse. I won't be called Perceval by you or any other pink-eared cross between Balaam's ass and a laughing hyena."
Mr. Bross gaped with resentment, which gradually overcame his better judgment.
"You won't, eh?" he said stridently. "I'd like to know what you're going to do to stop me, Perce—"
P. Sybarite stepped quickly toward him and George, with a growl, threw out his hands in a manner based upon a somewhat hazy conception of the formulæ of self-defence. To his surprise, the open hand of the smaller man slipped swiftly past what he called his "guard" and placed a smart, stinging slap upon lips open to utter the syllable "val."
Bearing with indignation, he swung his right fist heavily for the head of P. Sybarite. Somehow, strangely, it missed its goal and ...
George Bross sat upon the dusty, grimy floor, batted his eyes, ruefully rubbed the back of his head, and marvelled at the reverberations inside it.
Then he became conscious of P. Sybarite some three feet distant, regarding him with tight-lipped interest.
"Good God!" George ejaculated with feeling. "Did you do that to me?"
"I did," returned P. Sybarite curtly. "Want me to prove it?"
"Plenty, thanks," returned the shipping clerk morosely, as he picked himself up and dusted off his clothing. "Gee! You got a wallop like the kick of a mule, Per—"