"Well," said Benson, "what do you think of it?"
Kittrell paused an instant, and then said:
"I won't draw it; that's what I think of it."
Benson flushed angrily and looked up at him.
"We are paying you a very large salary, Mr. Kittrell, and your work, if you will pardon me, has not been up to what we were led to expect."
"You are quite right, Mr. Benson, but I can't draw that cartoon."
"Well, great God!" yelled Burns, "what have we got here—a gold brick?" He rose with a vivid sneer on his red face, plunged his hands in his pockets, and took two or three nervous strides across the room. Kittrell looked at him, and slowly his eyes blazed out of a face that had gone white on the instant.
"What did you say, sir?" he demanded.
Burns thrust his red face, with its prognathic jaw, menacingly toward Kittrell.
"I said that in you we'd got a gold brick."
"You?" said Kittrell. "What have you to do with it? I don't work for you."
"You don't? Well, I guess it's us that puts up—"
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" said Glenn, waving a white, pacificatory hand.
