"Who else?" George demanded with pardonable caution.
"Miss Prim, Miss Leasing, myself."
Removing his apron of ticking, the shipping clerk opened a drawer in
his desk, took put a pair of cuffs, and begun to adjust them to the
wristbands of his shirt.
"Since when did you begin to snuff coke?" he enquired with mild
compassion.
"I'm not joking." P. Sybarite displayed the tickets. "A friend sent me
these. I'll make up the party for to-night as I said, and let you come
along--on one condition."
"Go to it."
"You must promise me to quit calling me Perceval, here or any place
else, to-day and forever!"
George chuckled; paused; frowned; regarded P. Sybarite with narrow
suspicion.
"And never tell anybody, either," added the other, in deadly earnest.
George hesitated.
"Well, it's your _name_, ain't it?" he grumbled.
"That's not my fault. I'll be damned if I'll be called Perceval."
"And what if I keep on?"
"Then I'll make up my theatre party without you--and break your neck
into the bargain," said P. Sybarite intensely.
"You?" George laughed derisively. "You break _my_ neck? Can the
comedy, beau. Why, I could eat you alive, Perceval."
P. Sybarite got down from his stool. His face was almost colourless,
but for two bright red spots, the size of quarters, beneath either
cheek-bone. He was half a head shorter than the shipping clerk, and
apparently about half as wide; but there was sincerity in his manner
and an ominous snap in the unflinching stare of his blue eyes.
"Please yourself," he said quietly. "Only--don't say I didn't warn
you!"
"Ah-h!" sneered George, truculent in his amazement. "What's eatin'
you?"
"We're going to settle this question before you leave this warehouse.
I won't be called Perceval by you or any other pink-eared cross
between Balaam's ass and a laughing hyena."
Mr. Bross gaped with resentment, which gradually overcame his better
judgment.
"You won't, eh?" he said stridently. "I'd like to know what you're
going to do to stop me, Perce--"
P. Sybarite stepped quickly toward him and George, with a growl, threw
out his hands in a manner based upon a somewhat hazy conception of the
formulæ of self-defence. To his surprise, the open hand of the smaller
man slipped swiftly past what he called his "guard" and placed a
smart, stinging slap upon lips open to utter the syllable "val."
Bearing with indignation, he swung his right fist heavily for the head
of P. Sybarite. Somehow, strangely, it missed its goal and ...
George Bross sat upon the dusty, grimy floor, batted his eyes,
ruefully rubbed the back of his head, and marvelled at the
reverberations inside it.
Then he became conscious of P. Sybarite some three feet distant,
regarding him with tight-lipped interest.
"Good God!" George ejaculated with feeling. "Did _you_ do that to me?"
"I did," returned P. Sybarite curtly. "Want me to prove it?"
"Plenty, thanks," returned the shipping clerk morosely, as he picked
himself up and dusted off his clothing. "Gee! You got a wallop like
the kick of a mule, Per--"
"Cut that!"
"P.S., I mean," George amended hastily. "Why didn't you ever tell me
you was Jeffries's sparrin' partner?"
"I'm not and never was, and furthermore I didn't hit you," replied P.
Sybarite. "All I did was to let you fall over my foot and bump your
head on the floor. You're a clumsy brute, you know, George, and if you
tried it another time you _might_ dent that dome of yours. Better
accept my offer and be friends."
"Never call you Per--"
"Don't say it!"
"Oh, all right--all right," George agreed plaintively. "And if I
promise, I'm in on that theatre party?"
"That's my offer."
"It's hard," George sighed regretfully--"damn' hard. But whatever
_you_ say goes. I'll keep your secret."
"Good!" P. Sybarite extended one of his small, delicately modelled
hands. "Shake," said he, smiling wistfully.