"Get out!" he growled, in a deep, hoarse voice.
I stood dumbfounded for a brief moment, then I replied roughly and familiarly: "Oh, you go to the devil! Keep your anger for those who have caused it."
"Get out, will you!" he cried again, taking a step nearer to me, his brows lowered, his lips drawn to a thin line.
I had seen these danger signals in Jim before, but never with any ill intent toward me. I was so astounded I could scarcely think aright. What could he mean? What was the matter?
"Jim, Jim," I soothed, "don't talk that way to old friends."
"You're no friend of mine," he shouted. "Will you get out of here?"
In some respects, I was like Jim Darrol: I did not like to be ordered about.
"No! I will not get out," I snapped back at him. "I mean to remain here until you grow sensible."
I went over to his anvil, set my leg across it and looked straight at him.
He raised his hammer high, as if to strike me; and I felt then that if I had taken my eyes from Jim's for the briefest flash of time, my last minute on earth would have arrived.