“Nothing.”
“But we’re not living in the Middle Ages. Men don’t do such things.”
“I do,” said Dangerfield, with cold harshness, “and they know it.”
“I give up,” said the judge, with something like a break in his voice. “Go on; do what you want.”
“Call me anything you want,” said Dangerfield, with the same ominous calm. “Probably I am a fool; possibly I always have been one, but that’s why I’m going to carry my point.”
The judge put up his hands in helpless rage and went stumbling down the hall, while those in O’Leary’s room heard him exclaim,
“Mad—perfectly mad!”
By this time, the Three Arts, so to speak, had come to the same conclusion.
“Wish the devil he’d get it over with,” said Flick wearily, “whatever he’s going to do. I’ve seen some sporting life, but, holy cats! this being on the jump all hours of the night and day is getting into my constitution.”
“I say, Music,” said Tootles, equally distressed, “why don’t you loosen up and tell what you know. We’ve stood enough, don’t you think?”