“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 formulae 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.”