"Who is who?"
They laughed and nodded. "Why, you know. She. Don't you understand? She."
"You talk like a lot of crazy men," said Hawker. "I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, you don't, eh? You don't? Oh, no! How about those violets you were moping over this morning? Eh, old man! Oh, no, you don't know what we mean! Oh, no! How about those violets, eh? How about 'em?"
Hawker, with flushed and wrathful face, looked at Pennoyer. "Penny——" But Grief and Wrinkles roared an interruption. "Oh, ho, Mr. Hawker! so it's true, is it? It's true. You are a nice bird, you are. Well, you old rascal! Durn your picture!"
Hawker, menacing them once with his eyes, went away. They sat cackling.
At noon, when he met Wrinkles in the corridor, he said: "Hey, Wrinkles, come here for a minute, will you? Say, old man, I—I——"
"What?" said Wrinkles.
"Well, you know, I—I—of course, every man is likely to make an accursed idiot of himself once in a while, and I——"
"And you what?" asked Wrinkles.