"How's that?" asked Jasper, still marching up and down the floor; "wasn't she home?"
"Why, she sent Charlotte Chatterton down to see me," said Pickering, very much aggrieved, "and I hate that Chatterton girl."
"Why couldn't Polly see you?" went on Jasper, determined, since his assistance was asked, to go to the root of the matter.
"Oh, somebody in the establishment, I don't know who, had a finger-ache, I suppose," said Pickering, carelessly throwing away his cigar end and lighting a fresh one, "and wanted Polly. Never mind why; she couldn't come down, she sent word. So I gave up in despair. See here now, Jasper, you must help me out."
"I tell you I won't," declared Jasper, with rising irritation, "not in that way."
"You won't?"
"No, I won't. I can't, my dear fellow."
"Well, there's a great end of our friendship," exclaimed Pickering, red with anger, and he jumped to his feet. "Do you mean to say, Jasper King, that you won't do such a simple thing for me as to say a word to your sister Polly, when I tell you it's all up with me if you don't speak that word—say?"
"You oughtn't to ask such a thing; it's despicable in you," cried Jasper, aghast to find his anger rising at each word. "And if you insist in making such a request when I tell you that I cannot speak to Polly for you, why, I shall be forced to repeat what I said at first, that I won't have anything to do with it."
"Do you mean it," Pickering put himself in front of Jasper's advancing strides, "that you will not speak to Polly for me?"