"You're to blame for this, Pottle," rasped a voice. It was Gurnee Gulick's irate father.
"Me?" sputtered Mr. Pottle.
"Yes. You. You knew those ruffians had been drinking."
"I did not."
"Don't contradict me, you miserable little hair-cutting fool."
"What? How dare you——" began Mr. Pottle.
"Bah. You wart!" said Mr. Gulick, and turned his square yard of fat back on the incensed little man.
Mr. Pottle was taking a step after him as if he intended to leap up and sink his teeth into the back of Mr. Gulick's overflowing neck, when another hand clutched him. It was his wife.
Her face was white and tear-stained, her lip quivering.
"They've ruined it, they've ruined it," she exclaimed. "I warned that simpleton Gurnee Gulick not to be rough with those horseshoe boys. Oh, dear, oh, dear." She pillowed her brimming eyes in his toga-draped shoulder.