He was sulkily of the opinion that the
whole world was in a conspiracy to annoy him. Just now the approaching
rube typified the world.
A little flirt of the hose deluged Clay's newly shined boots and the
lower six inches of his trousers.
"Look out what you're doing!" protested the man from Arizona.
"I tank you better look where you're going," retorted the one from
Sweden. He was a heavy-set, muscular man with a sullen, obstinate face.
"My shoes and trousers are sopping wet."
"Yust you bate it oop street. I ant look for no trouble with no rubes."
"I believe you did it on purpose."
"Tank so? Val, yust one teng I lak to tell you. I got no time for
damn fule talk."
The Westerner started on his way. There was no use having a row with a
sulky janitor.
But the Swede misunderstood his purpose. At Clay's first step forward
he jerked round the nozzle and let the range-rider have it with full
force.
Clay was swept back to the wall by the heavy pressure of water that
played over him. The stream moved swiftly up and down him from head to
foot till it had drenched every inch of the perfect fifty-five-dollar
suit. He drowned fathoms deep in a water spout. He was swept over
Niagara Falls. He came to life again to find himself the choking
center of a world flood. He sputtered furiously while his arms flailed
like windmills to keep back the river of water that engulfed him.
The thought that brought him back to action was one that had to do with
the blue serge.
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