The Day of Days | Page 4

to be afraid this sittin' would pass off without a visit from
Uncle George's pet control. Had little Perceval any message from the
Other Side th'safternoon?"
"One or two," assented P. Sybarite gravely. "To begin with, I'm going
to shut up shop in just five minutes; and if you don't want to show
yourself on the street looking like a difference of opinion between a
bull-calf and a fountain pen--"
"Gotcha," interrupted George, rising and putting away handkerchief
and mirror. "I'll drown myself, if you say so. Anythin's better'n letting
you talk me to death."
"One thing more."
Splashing vigorously at the stationary wash-stand, George looked
gloomily over his shoulder, and in sepulchral accents uttered the one
word:
"Shoot!"
"How would you like to go to the theatre to-night?"
George soaped noisily his huge red hands.
"I'd like it so hard," he replied, "that I'm already dated up for an evenin'
of intellect'al enjoyment. Me and Sammy Holt 'a goin' round to Miner's
Eight' Avenoo and bust up the show. You can trail if you wanta, but
don't blame me if some big, coarse, two-fisted guy hears me call you
Perceval and picks on you."
He bent forward over the bowl, and the cubicle echoed with sounds of
splashing broken by gasps, splutters, and gurgles, until he straightened
up, groped blindly for two yards or so of dark grey roller-towel
ornamenting the adjacent wall, buried his face in its hospitable
obscurity, and presently emerged to daylight with a countenance bright
and shining above his chin, below his eyebrows, and in front of his
ears.
"How's that?" he demanded explosively. "Come off all right--didn't it?"

P. Sybarite inclined his head to one side and regarded the outcome of a
reform administration.
"You look almost naked around the nose," he remarked at length. "But
you'll do. Don't worry.... When I asked if you'd like to go to the theatre
to-night, I meant it--and I meant a regular show, at a Broadway house."
"Quit your kiddin'," countered Mr. Bross indulgently. "Come along: I
got an engagement to walk home and save a nickel, and so've you."
"Wait a minute," insisted P. Sybarite, without moving. "I'm in earnest
about this. I offer you a seat in a stage-box at the Knickerbocker
Theatre to-night, to see Otis Skinner in 'Kismet.'"
George's eyes opened simultaneously with his mouth.
"Me?" he gasped. "Alone?"
P. Sybarite shook his head. "One of a party of four."
"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."