Burns thrust his red face, with its prognathic jaw, menacingly toward Kittrell.
"I said that in you we'd got a gold brick."
"You?" said Kittrell. "What have you to do with it? I don't work for you."
"You don't? Well, I guess it's us that puts up—"
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" said Glenn, waving a white, pacificatory hand.
"Yes, let me deal with this, if you please," said Benson, looking hard at Burns. The street-car man sneered again, then, in ostentatious contempt, looked out the window. And in the stillness Benson continued:
"Mr. Kittrell, think a minute. Is your decision final?"
"It is final, Mr. Benson," said Kittrell. "And as for you, Burns," he glared angrily at the man, "I wouldn't draw that cartoon for all the dirty money that all the bribing street-car companies in the world could put into Mr. Glenn's bank here. Good evening, gentlemen."
It was not until he stood again in his own home that Kittrell felt the physical effects which the spiritual squalor of such a scene was certain to produce in a nature like his.