This was too much. Skippy sprang up, fists ready, and glowered his defiance. For a long moment they held this bellicose attitude, a collision imminent. But a resort to primitive methods is a serious affair between roommates. Each hesitated, seeking a dignified evasion of the crisis. "Well, go on with your baby act, if you enjoy it," said Snorky scornfully. "Lord, I'd hate to have your disposition!" The status quo having been restored, Skippy discarded Caesar's "Gallic Perplexities" and returned to boyhood's first heroine, while Snorky in a rage retreated to his side of the room and pondered. "I certainly riled him that time," said Skippy joyfully to himself. "Wonder what he'll do now?" After a few moments Snorky began to whistle, meditating to himself, which in boyhood is always a signal that the imagination is working. "What's the big idea now?" said Skippy, following from the corner of his eye. Snorky rose briskly and, repairing to his closet, disappeared on all fours. A moment later he returned, with a box of large and juicy chocolate eclairs and a bottle of ginger pop, and, establishing himself at the opposite end of the table, began to enjoy himself audibly. "The low-down hound!" said Skippy, writhing on his seat. In his calculations, he had completely forgotten the purchase of the afternoon. In turn he rose, delved into the debris of his closet and, returning, spread before his end of the table one tin of deviled turkey (Snorky's favorite), a large piece of American cheese and a bottle of root beer. It had now become a battle of wits, with each resolved to impress the other with the delicious satisfaction that he was experiencing and each gazing from time to time at a point directly above the other's head. There were six eclairs. Snorky ate four rapidly, licking his fingers with gusto after each. Then he ate the fifth eclair more slowly and with some effort. Despite all his self-control Skippy's gaze could not turn from that last-surviving member of the chocolate family. He was suffering tortures, but suffering under a calm and smiling exterior. "Hello!" said Snorky suddenly, talking to himself. "I almost forgot." He rose and left the room to Skippy and the sixth eclair. Tantalus, amid his parched seeking of a cooling draught, never suffered more anguish than Skippy sitting there before that undefended eclair, with only a gesture intervening. "Of all the mean, dirty, contemptible tricks!" he said angrily between his teeth, revolting at this most treacherous trap. For he must not, he could not, no matter what the pain he must endure, admit defeat by falling on that eclair. He rose and went to the window. Certainly he had been mistaken in Snorky; no one who would carry a quarrel to such fiendish lengths had the largeness of spirit that he had the right to demand in a chum.