Bunchy shook his head, pursing the tight, raw lips.
“Not her,” he said. “She believes anything you tell her—the whole works. There won’t never be no kickin’ from her about me not loafin’ home.”
“Well,” said the Inger, still with minute attention, “what you gettin’ married for, then?”
“Huh?” said Bunchy, an obstinate finger between his lips.
“I thought,” explained the Inger, “that a fellow got married for to have a home. Far as I can see, though,” he added with an air of great intellectual candor, “home is hell.”
Bunchy threw back his head and looked at him. Curiously, when he laughed, his little tight mouth revealed no teeth. His answer was deliberate, detailed, unspeakable.
For a minute the Inger looked at him, quietly, himself wondering at the surge of something hot through all his veins. In his slow swing round the end of the desk where Bunchy stood, there was no hint of what he meant to do. Bunchy did not even look up from the fat forefinger which he scrupulously pruned. Nor was there anything passionate in the Inger’s voice when he spoke.
“You ain’t got the time to-night,” he said, “but when you get back from your honeymoon, look me up and—remember this!”
The last words came with a rush, as the Inger lifted his hand, and with his open palm, struck Bunchy full in the face. He struck harder than he had intended, and the blood spurted. Even as he caught the ugly look of wrath and amazement in that face, the Inger tore the handkerchief knotted about his own neck and wiped the blood from Bunchy’s chin.
“No call to splash on the weddin’-finery,” the Inger said, with compunction. “Any time’ll do to bleed. She’s Jem Moor’s girl—you hound!” he blazed out again, and flung toward the door.