“I’ve a good mind to fetch you one right in the ribs. It’s ingratitood—it’s worse. An’ his pap a-gittin’ paid every week as reg’lar as the clock ticks! I’ll plunk you for that, I will.”
“But I don’t want to get plunked,” wailed the giant, with a catch in his voice.
“Well, then, don’t git off no more sich nonsense. Miserable, indeed! That ’ud be somethink for your pap to hear ’bout, eh? Ain’t there no thanks in that nature o’ yourn?”
“What have I to be thankful for, Mr. Whiffin? If I was only like these boys here I’d give anything in the world.”
Peter Whiffin snorted with indignation. He did more. Seizing the giant roughly by the arm, he commanded him to move, and move fast, under penalty of receiving an assorted number of hooks, straight lefts, and right uppercuts, and accompanied his remarks with an exhibition of these same blows, all coming perilously near the person of the complaining giant.
“If this here chatter ain’t a bit more’n the limit,” he growled. “An’ me not knowin’ what I’m a-goin’ to do for a barker to-morrow!”
“What’s the matter with Jack Gray?” asked George, forgetting his troubles for an instant.
“He’s went an’ took sich a cold that his voice sounds like a frog croakin’; that’s what’s the matter. If I ain’t in a mess for a spieler my name ain’t Whiffin. I can’t do it meself; an’ there ain’t nobody worth shucks in the hull shootin’ match.”
The voice of the unhappy manager gradually grew faint in the distance, then, presently, became lost altogether amidst the medley of noises that arose on all sides.
“Say, Brandon, think of that poor little giant standing for all of Peter Whiffin’s fresh talk,” said Victor, disgustedly. “Why, if he’d just start falling——”