A moment before he had been deploring the inadequacy of mere words. But these were not mere words. They were verbal dynamite.
“You so-and-so!” said Sam. “You such-and-such!”
Sailors are toughened by early training and long usage to bear themselves phlegmatically beneath abuse. Lord Tilbury had had no such advantages. He sprang backward as if he had been scalded by a sudden jet of boiling water.
“You pernicious little bounder!” said Sam. He strode to the door and flung it open. “Get out!”
If ever there was an occasion on which a man might excusably have said “Sir!” this was it; and no doubt, had he been able to speak, this was the word which Lord Tilbury would have used. Nearly a quarter of a century had passed since he had been addressed in this fashion to his face, and the thing staggered him.
“Get out!” repeated Sam. “What the devil,” he inquired peevishly, “are you doing here, poisoning the air?”
Lord Tilbury felt no inclination to embark upon a battle of words in which he appeared to be in opposition to an expert. Dazedly he flapped out into the hall, the grey flannel trousers swirling about his feet. At the front door, however, it suddenly occurred to him that he had not yet fired the most important shell in his ammunition wagon. He turned at bay.
“Wait!” he cried. “I may add——”
“No, you mayn’t,” said Sam.
“I wish to add——”