Bartley, on his part, enjoyed the business as an agreeable excitement and a welcome relief from the monotony of his official life. He never hurried Morrison's visits, but amused himself by treating him with the most flattering distinction, and baffling his arrogance by immediate concession. But this morning, when Morrison came back with a front of uncommon fierceness, he merely looked up from his newspapers, to which he had recurred, and said coolly. “Oh, Mr. Morrison! Good morning. I suppose it's that little advance that you wish to see me about. Take a chair. What is the increase you ask this time? Of course I agree to anything.” He leaned forward, pencil in hand, to make a note of the figure Morrison should name, when the drunkard approached and struck the table in front of him with his fist, and blazed upon Bartley's face, suddenly uplifted, with his blue crazy eyes: “No, sir! I won't take a seat, and I don't come on no such business! No, sir!” He struck the table again, and the violence of his blow upset the inkstand. Bartley saved himself by suddenly springing away. “Hollo here!” he shouted. “What do you mean by this infernal nonsense?” “What do _you_ mean,” retorted the drunkard, “by makin' up to my girl?” “You're a fool,” cried Bartley, “and drunk!” “I'll show you whether I'm a fool, and I'll show you whether I'm drunk,” said Morrison. He opened the door and beckoned to Bird, with an air of mysterious authority. “Young man! Come here!” Bird was used to the indulgence with which Bartley treated Morrison's tipsy freaks, and supposed that he had been called by his consent to witness another agreement to a rise in Hannah's wages. He came quickly, to help get Morrison out of the way the sooner, and he was astonished to be met by Bartley with “I don't want you, Bird.” “All right,” answered the boy, and he turned to go out of the door. But Morrison had planted himself against it, and waved Bird austerely back. “_I_ want you,” he said, with drunken impressiveness, “for a witness--wick--witness--while I ask Mr. Hubbard what he means by--” “Hold your tongue!” cried Bartley. “Get out of this!” He advanced a pace or two toward Morrison who stood his ground without swerving. “Now you--you keep quiet, Mr. Hubbard,” said Morrison, with a swift drunken change of mood, by which he passed from arrogant denunciation to a smooth, patronizing mastery of the situation. “_I_ wish this thing all settled amic--ic--amelcabilly.” Bartley broke into a helpless laugh at Morrison's final failure on a word difficult to sober tongues, and the latter went on: “No 'casion for bad feeling on either side. All I want know is what you mean.” “Well, go on!” cried Bartley, good-naturedly, and he sat down in his chair, which he tilted back, and, clasping his hands behind his head, looked up into Morrison's face. “What do I mean by what?”