The Day of Days: An Extravaganza. Louis Joseph Vance

to write me on any matter, please address me by the initial of my ridiculous first name only; it is of course impossible for me to live down the deep damnation of having been born a Sybarite; but the indulgence of my friends can save me the further degradation of being known as Perceval.

      With thanks renewed and profound, I remain, all things considered,

      Remotely yours,

      P. SYBARITE.

      This he sealed and addressed in a stamped envelope: then thrust his pen into a raw but none the less antique potato; covered the red and black inkwells; closed the ledger; locked the petty-cash box and put it away; painstakingly arranged the blotters, paste-pot, and all the clerical paraphernalia of his desk; and slewed round on his stool to blink pensively at Mr. Bross.

      That gentleman, having some time since despaired of any response to his persistent baiting, was now preoccupied with a hand-mirror and endeavours to erase the smudge of marking-ink from his face by means of a handkerchief which he now and again moistened in an engagingly natural and unaffected manner.

      "It's no use, George," observed P. Sybarite presently. "If you're in earnest in these public-spirited endeavours to—how would you put it?—to remove the soil from your map, take a tip from an old hand and go to soap and water. I know it's painful, but, believe me, it's the only way."

      George looked up in some surprise.

      "Why, there you are, little Bright Eyes!" he exclaimed with spirit. "I was beginnin' 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."

      Bearing with indignation, he swung his right fist heavily for the head of P. Sybarite. Somehow, strangely, it missed its goal and …

      George Bross sat upon the dusty, grimy floor, batted his eyes, ruefully rubbed the back of his head, and marvelled at the reverberations inside it.

      Then he became conscious of P. Sybarite some three feet distant, regarding him with tight-lipped interest.

      "Good God!" George ejaculated with feeling. "Did you do that to me?"

      "I did," returned P. Sybarite curtly. "Want me to prove it?"

      "Plenty, thanks," returned the shipping clerk morosely, as he picked himself up and dusted off his clothing. "Gee! You got a wallop like the kick of a mule, Per—"

      "Cut that!"

      "P.S., I mean," George amended hastily. "Why didn't you ever tell me you was Jeffries's sparrin' partner?"

      "I'm not and never was, and furthermore I didn't hit you," replied P. Sybarite. "All I did was to let you fall over my foot and bump your head on the floor. You're a clumsy brute, you know, George, and if you