A tap came on the door, and the voice of Butsey White said coldly:
"Open up! Fuzzy-Wuzzy's in the House; you're safe. Open up. I've got to get ready for supper."
Stover drew back the bed, unlocked the door and waited with clenched fists for Butsey to spring at him. Butsey White, whose tempestuous rage had long since spent itself in hilarious laughter, as, indeed, had been the case with the rest, thought it best, however, for the purposes of authority, still to preserve a grave face.
"You're a fine specimen!" he said curtly. "You've had a beautiful day of it."
"Yes, I have," said Dink miserably, "a beautiful day!"
Butsey, to whom the tragedy of the century was nothing but an incident, had not the slightest suspicion of Stover's absolute, overwhelming despair. Yet Butsey, too, had suffered, and profited by the suffering.
"You better square up with Tough McCarty," he said, failing to read the anguish in Stover's eyes. "You certainly were the limit."
"I hate him!" said Dink bitterly.
"Why?"
"He's a bully."