"Mistake," said Desboro gravely. "'Fraid you'll overdo it, old chap."
"Oh, I'll have a shy at it," said Clydesdale cheerfully. "Very glad to have you score, if you like."
"If you insist," replied the younger man courteously.
There was a bell outside Studio No. 20. Desboro punched it with the ferrule of his walking stick; and when the door opened, somewhat cautiously, Clydesdale inserted his huge foot between the door and the sill.
There was a brief and frantic scuffle; then the poet fled, his bunch of frizzled hair on end, and the two men entered the apartment.
To the left a big studio loomed, set with artistic furniture and bric-a-brac and Mr. Waudle—the latter in motion. In fact, he was at that moment in the process of rushing at Mr. Clydesdale, and under full head-way.
Whenever Mr. Waudle finally obtained sufficient momentum to rush, he appeared to be a rather serious proposition; for he was as tall as Clydesdale and very much fatter, and his initial velocity, combined with his impact force per square inch might have rivalled the dynamic problems of the proving ground.
Clydesdale took one step forward to welcome him, and Waudle went down, like thunder.
Then he got up, went down immediately; got up, went down, stayed down for an appreciable moment; arose, smote the air, was smitten with a smack so terrific that the poet, who was running round and round the four walls, squeaked in sympathy.
Waudle sat up on the floor, his features now an unrecognisable mess. He was crying.