CARTERET WILLIAMS, WAR CORRESPONDENT. He wrote with a red picturesqueness which was horribly attractive
"What, is it really Bunting?" roared Bob, eagerly.
"He says his name's Bunting," replied Williams. "But he's very difficult to handle."
"Oh, Tim can box," said Bob. "But is he our Bunting?"
"Whichever Bunting he is, you are welcome to him," said the enraged war correspondent.
"I must go up and see," said Bob. "Do you think he threw Mr. Plant and Mr. Gordon down, too? I met 'em just now, and they looked as if he had."
"I'm sure he's capable of it," said Williams, bitterly. "Here, take this book with you. I don't want it."
And Bob climbed up, hugging several pounds' weight of Greek with him. He stood at the door and listened, and heard a man inside snorting violently and slamming things about as if he was very much disturbed in his mind. Bob knocked at the door, and it was opened suddenly. The man who opened it was in deep shadow.
"It is—it is. No, it isn't," said Bob, quite aloud.