"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