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 d.a.m.ned 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 a.s.s 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 G.o.d!" George e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 b.u.mp 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--"d.a.m.n' 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.

II

INSPIRATION

When they had locked in the Genius of the Place to batten upon itself until seven o'clock Monday morning, P. Sybarite and Mr. Bross, with at least every outward semblance of complete amity, threaded the roaring congestion in narrow-chested Frankfort Street, boldly breasted the flood tide of homing Brooklynites, won their way through City Hall Park, and were presently swinging shoulder to shoulder up the sunny side of lower Broadway.

To be precise, the swinging stride was practised only by Mr. Bross; P.

Sybarite, instinctively aware that any such mode of locomotion would ill become one of his inches, contented himself with keeping up--his gait an apparently effortless, tireless, and comfortable amble, congruent with bowed shoulders, bended head, introspective eyes, and his aspect in general of patient preoccupation.

From time to time George, who was maintaining an unnatural and painful silence, his mental processes stagnant with wonder and dull resentment, eyed his companion askance, with furtive suspicion. Their a.s.sociation was now one of some seven years' standing; and it seemed a grievous thing that, after posing so long as the patient b.u.t.t of his rude humour, P.S. should have so suddenly turned and proved himself the better man--and that not mentally alone.

"Lis'n--" George interjected of a sudden.

P. Sybarite started. "Eh?" he enquired blankly.

"I wanna know where you picked up all that cla.s.sy footwork."

"Oh," returned P.S., depreciatory, "I used to spar a bit with the fellows when I was a--ah--when I was younger."

"When you was at _what_?" insisted Bross, declining to be fobbed off with any such flimsy evasion.

"When I was at liberty to."

"Huh! You mean, when you was at college."

"Please yourself," said P. Sybarite wearily.

"Well, you was at college oncet, wasn't you?"

"I was," P.S. admitted with reluctance; "but I never graduated. When I was twenty-one I had to quit to go to work for Whigham & Wimper."

"G'wan," commented the other. "They ain't been in business twenty-five years."