“And that is not what I chased you for, either,” continued Mortimer. “I didn't intend to say anything about Desmond; I was going to fix it in another way!” He cast an involuntary and sinister glance at the elevators gliding ceaselessly up and down at the end of the vast marble rotunda; then his protruding eyes sought Plank's again:
“Beverly, old boy, I've got a certain mealy-faced hypocrite where any decent man would like to have him—by the scruff of his neck. He's fit only to kick; and I'm going to kick him good and plenty; and in the process he's going to let go of several things.” Mortimer leered, pleased with his own similes, then added rather hastily: “I mean, he's going to drop several things that don't belong to him. Leave it to me to shake him down; he'll drop them all right.... One of 'em's yours.”
Plank looked at him.
“I told you once that I'd let you know when to step up and say 'Good evening' didn't I?”
Plank continued to stare.
“Didn't I?” repeated Mortimer peevishly, beginning to lose countenance.
“I don't understand you,” said Plank, “and I don't think I want to understand you.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Mortimer thickly; “don't you want to marry that girl!” but he shrank dismayed under the slow blaze that lighted Plank's blue eyes.
“All right,” he stammered, struggling to his fat legs and instinctively backing away; “I thought you meant business. I—what the devil do I care who you marry! It's the last time I try to do anything for you, or for anybody else! Mark that, my friend. I've plenty to worry over; I've a lot to keep me busy without lying awake to figure out how to do kindnesses to old friends. Damn this ingratitude, anyway!”
Plank gazed at him for a moment; the anger in his face had died out.