"Give me that," he said curtly. "Take your hands on my mother's picture."
"It's not," Hugh exclaimed angrily; "it's not. It's my musher, my own mu-musher—my, my own dear musher. Oh, oh!"
He slumped down in a heap and began to sob bitterly, muttering, "Musher, musher, musher."
Norry was angry. The whole scene was revolting to him. His best friend was a disgusting sight, apparently not much better than a gibbering idiot. And Hugh had shamefully abused his hospitality. Norry was no longer gentle and boyish; he was bitterly disillusioned.
"Get up," he said briefly. "Get up and go to bed."
"Tha's my musher. You said it wasn't my—my musher." Hugh looked up, his face wet with maudlin tears.
Norry leaned over and snatched the picture from him. "Take your dirty hands off of that," he snapped. "Get up and go to bed."
"Tha's my musher." Hugh was gently persistent.
"It's not your mother. You make me sick. Go to bed." Norry tugged at Hugh's arm impotently; Hugh simply sat limp, a dead weight.
Norry's gray eyes narrowed. He took a glass, filled it with cold water in the bedroom, and then deliberately dashed the water into Hugh's face.