Archie took an uninvited seat, eyed the Health Bread on the breakfast table for a moment with frank curiosity, and resumed his discourse.
“No, but I say, you know! I’ll tell you what happened. I hate to totter in where I’m not wanted and all that, but my wife made such a point of it. Rightly or wrongly she regards me as a bit of a hound in the diplomacy line, and she begged me to look you up and see whether we couldn’t do something about settling the jolly old thing. I mean to say, you know, the old bird–old Brewster, you know–is considerably perturbed about the affair–hates the thought of being in a posish where he has either got to bite his old pal McCall in the neck or be bitten by him–and–well, and so forth, don’t you know! How about it?” He broke off. “Great Scot! I say, what!”
So engrossed had he been in his appeal that he had not observed the presence of the pie-eating champion, between whom and himself a large potted plant intervened. But now Washington, hearing the familiar voice, had moved from the window and was confronting him with an accusing stare.
“HE made me do it!” said Washy, with the stern joy a sixteen-year- old boy feels when he sees somebody on to whose shoulders he can shift trouble from his own. “That’s the fellow who took me to the place!”
“What are you talking about, Washington?”
“I’m telling you! He got me into the thing.”
“Do you mean this–this–” Mrs. McCall shuddered. “Are you referring to this pie-eating contest?”
“You bet I am!”
“Is this true?” Mrs. McCall glared stonily at Archie, “Was it you who lured my poor boy into that–that–”
“Oh, absolutely. The fact is, don’t you know, a dear old pal of mine who runs a tobacco shop on Sixth Avenue was rather in the soup. He had backed a chappie against the champion, and the chappie was converted by one of your lectures and swore off pie at the eleventh hour. Dashed hard luck on the poor chap, don’t you know! And then I got the idea that our little friend here was the one to step in and save the situash, so I broached the matter to him. And I’ll tell you one thing,” said Archie, handsomely, “I don’t know what sort of a capacity the original chappie had, but I’ll bet he wasn’t in your son’s class. Your son has to be seen to be believed! Absolutely! You ought to be proud of him!” He turned in friendly fashion to Washy. “Rummy we should meet again like this! Never dreamed I should find you here. And, by Jove, it’s absolutely marvellous how fit you look after yesterday. I had a sort of idea you would be groaning on a bed of sickness and all that.”
There was a strange gurgling sound in the background. It resembled something getting up steam. And this, curiously enough, is precisely what it was. The thing that was getting up steam was Mr. Lindsay McCall.
The first effect of the Washy revelations on Mr. McCall had been merely to stun him. It was not until the arrival of Archie that he had had leisure to think; but since Archie’s entrance he had been thinking rapidly and deeply.
For many years Mr. McCall had been in a state of suppressed revolution. He had smouldered, but had not dared to blaze. But this startling upheaval of his fellow-sufferer, Washy, had acted upon him like a high explosive. There was a strange gleam in his eye, a gleam of determination. He was breathing hard.
“Washy!”
His voice had lost its deprecating mildness. It rang strong and clear.
“Yes, pop?”
“How many pies did you eat yesterday?”
Washy considered.
“A good few.”
“How many? Twenty?”
“More than that. I lost count. A good few.”
“And you feel as well as ever?”
“I feel fine.”
Mr. McCall dropped his glasses. He glowered for a moment at the breakfast table. His eye took in the Health Bread, the imitation coffee-pot, the cereal, the nut-butter. Then with a swift movement he seized the cloth, jerked it forcibly, and brought the entire contents rattling and crashing to the floor.