“Darn it!” exclaimed Morrison to Jim and Phil, as he left them at the end of the avenue, “I used to like Brenchfield, but I don’t know what’s come over me lately with him. When he laid his hand on me a few minutes 184 ago, I felt as if a wet toad was squatting on the back of my neck.”
When they reached home, Jim did not go to his own room immediately. He followed into Phil’s and sat down on the edge of the bed as Phil commenced to get out of his clothes preparatory to having a bath.
“Well!––what did you think of it, Phil?” he asked, glad, evidently, to be alone with his comrade where he could at last express his thoughts and pent-up feelings freely.
“Pretty work!”
“What?”
“I said I thought it was pretty work. We did a clean job;––got all we went out for.”
“Like the devil we did!” shot out Jim.
“Why!––what did we forget, grouchy?”
“Everything! They’re too blamed wise for us, that bunch, and they’re too many.”
Phil stopped pulling off a sock and looked over at Jim.