When Glazzard tapped at the inner door and entered, his friend, who
sat at the writing-table in evening costume, threw up his arms,
stretched himself, and yawned noisily.
"Working at your book?" asked the other.
"No; letters. I don't care for the Sea-Kings just now. They're
rather remote old dogs, after all, you know."
"Distinctly, I should say."
"A queer thing, on the whole, that I can stick so to them. But I
like their spirit. You're not a pugnacious fellow, I think,
Glazzard?"
"No, I think not."
"But I am, you know. I mean it literally. Every now and then I feel
I should like to thrash some one. I read in the paper this morning
of some son of a"----(Denzil's language occasionally reminded one
that he had been a sailor) "who had cheated a lot of poor
servant-girls out of their savings. My fists itched to be at that
lubber! There's a good deal to be said for the fighting instinct in
man, you know."
"So thinks 'Arry of the music-halls."
"Well, we have heard before of an ass opening its mouth to prophesy.
I tell you what: on my way here this afternoon I passed the office
of some journal or other in the Strand, where they're exhibiting a
copy of their paper returned to them by a subscriber in Russia. Two
columns are completely obliterated with the censor's lamp-black,--
that's how it reaches the subscriber's hands.
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