Even then Tom made no move. He merely glowered at the recumbent figure.
Jerry blew a cloud of smoke, then waved a generous gesture.
"Now then, fly at it, Mr. Linton," he said, sweetly. "I've et my fill;
I've had an ample sufficiency; I'm through and in for the night."
"Oh no, you ain't! You get up and wash that skillet."
Mr. Quirk started guiltily.
"Hustle your creaking joints and scrub it out."
"Pshaw! I only fried a slice—"
"Scrub it!" Linton ordered.
This command Jerry obeyed, although it necessitated heating more water, a procedure which, of course, he maliciously prolonged. "Waited till I was all spread out, didn't you," he sneered, as he stooped over the wood-box. "That's like you. Some people are so small-calibered they'd rattle around in a gnat's bladder like a mustard seed in a bass drum."
"I'm particular who I eat after," Tom said, "so be sure you scrub it clean."
"Thought you'd spoil my smoke. Well, I can smoke standin' on my head and enjoy it." There was a silence, broken only by the sound of Jerry's labors. At last he spoke: "Once again I repeat what I told you yesterday. I took the words out of your own mouth. You said the woman was a hellion—"