“You seldom are, I understand,” replied Average Jones blandly. “Well, if you won’t talk about bugs, let’s talk about dogs.”
“The topic does not interest me, sir,” retorted the other, and the glance of his eye was baleful, but uneasy.
The tapping of the young man’s cane ceased. He looked up into his host’s glowering face with a seraphic and innocent smile.
“Not even if it—er—touched upon a device for guarding the street corners in case—er—Peter Paul went walking—er—once too often?”
Judge Ackroyd took one step forward. Average Jones was on his feet instantly, and, even in her alarm, Sylvia Graham noticed how swiftly and naturally his whole form “set.” But the big man turned away, and abruptly left the room.
“Were you wise to anger him?” asked the girl, as the heavy tread died away on the stairs.
“Sometimes open declaration of war is the soundest strategy.”
“War?” she repeated. “You make me feel like a traitor to my own family.”
“That’s the unfortunate part of it,” he said; “but it can’t be helped.”
“You spoke of having some one guard the corners of the block,” continued the girl, after a thoughtful silence. “Do you think I’d better arrange for that?”