"Next time you'll get it. I'm dreadful short of temper, I am--can't stand no crossing. Talk to me about the state of the nation, or the price of coals, or your mother-in-law, and I'm with you, but questions I bar."
Paxton tried to summon up a smile.
"Under different circumstances I should be happy to discuss with you the political and other tendencies of the age, but just at present, for conversation on such an exalted plane, the conditions can scarcely be called auspicious."
Up went the pail once more.
"None of your sauce for me, or you'll get it. Now, what's the matter?"
The matter was that Paxton had closed his eyes and compressed his lips, and that a suggestive pallor had come into his cheeks. The pain of his ligatures was rapidly becoming so excruciating that it was as much as he could do to bear it and keep his senses.
"These ropes of yours cut like knives," he murmured.
Instead of being moved to pity, the fellow was moved to smile.
"Like another pailful--hot or cold?"
It was a moment or two before Paxton could trust himself to speak. When he did it was once more with the ghastly semblance of a smile.