And with that he ups with a chair, swings it over his shoulder, and mows down a whole row of 'em. They goes crashin' onto the floor.
"Muh Gord!" gasps the dumpy tea juggler.
"Clean alley! Set 'em up on the other!" I sings out.
But Gerald is too busy to notice side remarks. His thin face is flushed and his eyes sparkle. Peelin' off the cutaway, he tosses it careless on a table.
"Look out for splinters!" says he as he heaves a chair into the showcase among the fake jew'lry, and with another proceeds to make vicious swipes at whatever's left on the shelves.
As a tearoom wrecker he was some artist, believe me! Not a blessed thing that could be smashed did he miss, and what he couldn't break he bent or dented.
"Ain't he just grand!" observes Celia to her dumpy friend. "My! I didn't think it was in him."
It was, though. A village fire department couldn't have done a neater job, or been more thorough. He even tosses down a lot of work baskets and jumps on 'em and kicks 'em about.
"There!" says he, after a lively session, when the place looks like it had been through a German siege. "Now it's all genuine junk, I guess."
Sister Evelyn gazes at him placid. "No doubt about that," she remarks. "And I hope you feel better, Brother dear. Perhaps you will tell me, though, what is to become of me now."