“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” snarled Bonny, miserably, rolling his head about on his folded arms resting on the table. “I hate everything and everybody. I could kill you, Roger.”
“All right—there’s a pair of Indian clubs over there in the corner,” said his brother-in-law, cheerfully.
“I thought I’d be an angel after a few nights’ association with you,” continued the lad, “and you make me feel worse than ever.”
“Looks as if I were a bad sort of a fellow, doesn’t it?” remarked Roger, philosophically.
“You’re not bad,” snapped Bonny. “You’re a tremendous good sort. I’m the brute. Roger, why don’t you preach to me?”
For some time Roger stared at him in silence; then he said, “Seems to me you can preach better to yourself. If I were going to set up for a preacher I’d only hold forth to the impenitent.”
“The fellows are going to a dance at Hickey’s to-night,” said Bonny, suddenly pounding on the table with his fist, “and I’m not in it, and then at midnight they’re going to see the circus arrive, and I’m not in that.”
“At Hickey’s—where is that?”
“Up the road; don’t you know?”