head."

"Father!" he yelled indignantly. "Who is this mucker?"

Mr. Rocksworth bounced toward me, his cane raised. I whirled upon him.

"How dare you!" he shouted. The ladies squealed.

If he expected me to cringe, he was mightily mistaken. My blood was
up. I advanced.

"Paste him, Dad!" roared Harold.

But Mr. Rocksworth suddenly altered his course and put the historic
treaty table between him and me. He didn't like the appearance of my
rather brawny fist.

"You big stiff!" shouted Harold. Afterwards it occurred to me that
this inelegant appellation may have been meant for his father, but at
the time I took it to be aimed at me.

Before Harold quite knew what was happening to him, he was prancing
down the long hall with my bony fingers grasping his collar. Coming
to the door opening into the outer vestibule, I drew back my foot for
a final aid to locomotion. Acutely recalling the fact that slippers
are not designed for kicking purposes, I raised my foot, removed the
slipper and laid it upon a taut section of his trousers with all of
the melancholy force that I usually exert in slicing my drive off the
tee. I shall never forget the exquisite spasm of pleasure his plaintive
"Ouch!" gave me.