In his bewilderment, Jimmy scooped up a double handful of the pi and was in the act of pouring it pell-mell into one of the cases, when Phaeton, Ned, and I arrived at the door of the office.
Ned, who saw him first, and instantly comprehended the situation, gave a terrific yell, which caused Jimmy to drop the handful of type, some of which went into the case, and the rest spattered over the floor.
"Are you trying to ruin the office?" said Ned. "Don't you know better than to pi a form, and then throw the pi into the cases? After all the trouble we've had with your old poems, you ought to have more gratitude than that."
Jimmy was pale with terror, and utterly dumb.
"Hold on, Ned," said Phaeton, laying his hand on his brother's shoulder. "You ought to have sense enough to know that it must have been an accident of some sort. Of course Jimmy wouldn't do it purposely."
"Pieing the form may have been an accident," said Ned; "but when he scoops up a double handful of the pi and goes to pouring it into the case, that can't be an accident. And it was my case, too, and I was the one that did everything for him, and was going to bring him out as a poet in the world's history. If he had behaved himself, I'd have set him up in business in a little while, so he could have made as much money as Sir Walter Tupper, or any of those other fellows that you read to us about. And now, just look at that case of mine, with probably every letter of the alphabet in every box of it."
"But I tell you it must have been a mere accident," said Phaeton. "Wasn't it, Jimmy?"
"Suppose it was an accident," said Ned; "the question is, whose accident was it? If it had been my accident, I should expect to pay for it."
Phaeton took hold of his brother's arm with a quiet but powerful grasp, and led him to the door.
"You're needlessly excited, Ned," said he. "Go outside till you get cooled off." And he put him out and shut the door.