“You trying to tickle me?” inquired Mr. Sharp.
“You get off home,” said the other. “You've been doing nothing but make mischief ever since you came in. What put such things into your silly head I don't know. I shall never hear the end of 'em as long as I live.”
“Silly head?” repeated Mr. Sharp, with an alarming change of manner. “Say it again.”
Mr. Culpepper repeated it with gusto.
“Very good,” said Mr. Sharp. He seized him suddenly and, pushing him backwards into his easychair, stood over him with such hideous contortions of visage that Mr. Culpepper was horrified. “Now you sit there and keep quite still,” he said, with smouldering ferocity. “Where did you put carving-knife? Eh? Where's carving-knife?”
“No, no, Bert,” said Mr. Culpepper, clutching at his sleeve. “I—I was only joking. You—you ain't quite yourself, Bert.”
“What?” demanded the other, rolling his eyes, and clenching his fists.
“I—I mean you've improved,” said Mr. Culpepper, hurriedly. “Wonderful, you have.”
Mr. Sharp's countenance cleared a little. “Let's make a night of it,” he said. “Don't move, whatever you do.”
He closed the door and, putting the wine and a couple of glasses on the mantelpiece, took a chair by Mr. Culpepper and prepared to spend the evening. His instructions were too specific to be disregarded, and three times he placed his arm about the waist of the frenzied Mr. Culpepper and took him for a lumbering dance up and down the room. In the intervals between dances he regaled him with interminable extracts from speeches made at the debating society and recitations learned at school. Suggestions relating to bed, thrown out by Mr. Culpepper from time to time, were repelled with scorn. And twice, in deference to Mr. Sharp's desires, he had to join in the chorus of a song.