"I'll thrash you within an inch of your life—here and now!" Shaynon blustered.
"One moment," P. Sybarite pleaded with a graceful gesture. "Before committing yourself to this mad enterprise, would you mind telling me exactly how you spell that word inch? With a capital I and a final e—by any chance?"
IN A BALCONY
Bewilderment and consternation, working in the man, first struck him dumb, aghast, and witless, then found expression in an involuntary gasp that was more than half of wondering fear, the remainder rage slipping its leash entirely:
"What?"
He advanced a pace with threatening mien.
Overshadowed though he was, P. Sybarite stood his ground with no least hint of dismay. To the contrary, he was seen to stroke his lips discreetly as if to erase a smile.
"The word in question," he said with exasperating suavity, "is the common one of four letters, to-wit, inch; as ordinarily spelled denoting the unit of lineal measurement—the twelfth part of a foot; but lend it a capital I and an ultimate e—my good fellow!—and it stands, I fear too patiently, for the standard of your blackguardism."
Speechless, the younger Shaynon hesitated, lifting an uncertain hand to his throat, as if to relieve a sense of strangulation.