Why under heaven,
if a man wanted matches, couldn't he buy a thousand boxes and store them
in piles in his room?
The old professor apologized blandly for his intrusion, but seemed in no
hurry to make the obvious reparation. He drew a match along the bottom
of the mantle-shelf, eyeing the back of the little Doctor's head as he
did so, and slowly lit a cigar.
"I'm sorry to see that you've met with an accident, Mr. Queed. Is there
anything, perhaps, that I might do?"
"Nothing at all,'thanks," said Queed, so indignantly that Nicolovius
dropped the subject at once.
The star-boarder of Mrs. Paynter's might have been fifty-five or he
might have been seventy, and his clothes had long been the secret envy
of Mr. Bylash. He leaned against the mantel at his ease, blowing blue
smoke.
"You find this a fairly pleasant place to sit of an evening, I daresay!"
he purred, presently.
The back of the young man's head was uncompromisingly stern. "I might as
well try to write in the middle of Centre Street."
"So?" said Nicolovius, not catching his drift. "I should have thought
that--"
"The interruptions," said Queed, "are constant.
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