I was reflecting on what an infinitesimal speck I was in the general
scheme of things, when I heard the footfall of another human speck,
stumbling through the dark and carrying a dress-suit case. It was Jones
himself, outward bound, and doing five knots an hour. I was after him in
a second, doing six.
"Jones!" I cried.
He never even turned round.
I grabbed him by the arm. He wasn't going to walk away from me like
that.
"Where are you going?" I demanded.
"Home!"
"But say, stop; you can't do that. It's too darned rude. We don't break
up till to-morrow."
"I'm breaking up now," he said.
"But--"
"Let go my arm--!"
"Oh, but, my dear chap--" I began.
"Don't you dear chap me!"
We strode on in silence. Even his back looked sullen, and his face under
the gaslights--
"Westoby," he broke out suddenly, "if there's one thing I'm sensitive
about it is my name. Slap me in the face, turn the hose on me, rip the
coat off my back--and you'd be astounded by my mildness. But when it
comes to my name I--I'm a tiger!"
"A tiger," I repeated encouragingly.
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