"Particularly,
as I'm not sure, myself. I may want to quarrel with him."
"You won't have the slightest difficulty in that," the girl assured
him.
She rang the bell, dispatched a servant, and presently judge Ackroyd
stalked into the room. As Average Jones was being presented, he
took comprehensive note and estimate of the broad-cheeked,
thin-lipped face; the square shoulders and corded neck, and the
lithe and formidable carriage of the man. Judge "Oily" Ackroyd's
greeting of the guest within his gates did not bear out the
sobriquet of his public life. It was curt to the verge of
harshness.
"What is the market quotation on beetles, judge?" asked the young
man, tapping the rug with his stick.
"What are you talking about?" demanded the other, drawing down his
heavy brows.
"The black beetle; the humble but brisk haunter of household
crevices," explained Average Jones. "You advertised for ten
thousand specimens. I've got a few thousand I'd like to dispose of,
if the inducements are sufficient."
"I'm in no mood for joking, young man," retorted the other, rising.
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