Boomed Antony: “I have studied the ways of lice for five years on end and must inform you, George, that my brain, though moth-eaten, is certainly superior. I have made mints of money. I am fat with money. I roll in money....” He was working himself up into that state of chronic excitement in which he might twist the lamp-post. Breakable or twistable things had always a fascination for Red Antony.
“There, there!” I soothed him. “And we thought the little man was dead!”
“There, there!” said George. “Did he make money, now! And we thought he was lying in some forgotten foreign field with a German bullet in his heart.”
Bother the man! He simply had to make a noise each time he opened his mouth. The policeman who had talked Vine Street to us approached.
“Dead! Me dead!” And the sweep of his arm flung wide his cloak, and indeed he looked a mighty man of wrath. “As though a Prooshian bullet could kill me!”
“You are no doubt reserved for a more terrible end,” said Tarlyon.
Blessed if the man didn’t wilt! That roaring red giant—he wilted.
“Don’t say that, George,” he begged hoarsely. “It’s a fool remark to make, that. You didn’t mean it, did you?” And he put the question seriously! We gaped at him.
“He was only being funny,” I explained. “He tries his best....”
“I wish you well, Antony,” said Tarlyon, out of his surprise.