"I say, Desboro, catch that poet for me—there's a good chap," said Clydesdale, breathing rather hard.
The Cubist, who had been running round and round like a frantic rabbit, screamed and ran the faster.
"Oh, just shy some bric-a-brac at him and come home," said Desboro in disgust.
But Clydesdale caught him, seated himself, jerked the devotee of the moon across his ponderous knees, and, grinning, hoisted on high the heavy hand of justice. And the post-impressionistic literature of the future shrieked.
"Very precious, isn't it?" panted Clydesdale. "You dirty little mop of hair, I think I'll spank you into the future. Want a try at this moon-pup, Desboro? No? Quite right; you don't need the exercise. Whew!" And he rolled the writhing poet off his knees and onto the floor, sat up breathing hard and grinning around him.
"Now for the club and a cold plunge—eh, Desboro? I tell you it puts life into a man, doesn't it? Perhaps, while I'm about it, I might as well beat up the other one a little more——"
"My God!" blubbered Waudle.
"Oh, very well—if you feel that way about it," grinned Clydesdale. "But you understand that you won't have any sensation to feel with at all if you ever again even think of the name of Mrs. Clydesdale."
He got up, still panting jovially, pleased as a great Dane puppy who has shaken an old shoe to fragments.
At the door he paused and glanced back.