On the fifth night something went wrong with him. In the first place, he was late in coming. In the second place, his nerves seemed to be stretched to their utmost tension.
“What’s up with you?” asked Roger, when, after a few minutes’ work Bonny pushed aside the big books, and said, “I’m going home.”
“I’m tired,” said Bonny. “I hate this bookkeeping.”
“All right,” said his brother-in-law, composedly. “I’m tired myself. Let’s have a game of chess.”
“I hate chess,” said Bonny, sulkily.
“I wonder whether it’s too early for supper?” asked Roger, good-humouredly getting up and going to a closet.
He looked over his shoulder at Bonny as he spoke. Every night at half-past nine he was in the habit of producing cakes, candy, syrup, fruit, and nuts for the boy’s supper. It was not very long since he had been a boy himself, and he remembered his chronic craving for sweet things.
“You’re always stuffing me,” replied Bonny, disagreeably. “You think you’ll make me good-natured.”
“What’s the matter with you, Bonny?” asked Roger, closing the door and returning to his seat.