"What do you want here?" demanded Wright. He was red, bloated,
thick-lipped, all fiery and sweaty from drink, though sober on the
moment, and he had the expression of a desperate man in his last stand.
It _was_ his last stand, though he was ignorant of that.
"Me--Say, Wright, I ain't fired yet," I replied, in slow-rising
resentment.
"Well, you're fired now," he replied insolently.
"Who fires me, I'd like to know?" I walked up on the porch and I had a
cigarette in one hand, a match in the other. I struck the match.
"I do," said Wright.
I studied him with apparent amusement. It had taken only one glance
around for me to divine that Sampson would enjoy any kind of a clash
between Wright and me. "Huh! You fired me once before an' it didn't go,
Wright. I reckon you don't stack up here as strong as you think."
He was facing the porch, moody, preoccupied, somber, all the time. Only
a little of his mind was concerned with me. Manifestly there were strong
forces at work. Both men were strained to a last degree, and Wright
could be made to break at almost a word. Sampson laughed mockingly at
this sally of mine, and that stung Wright. He stopped his pacing and
turned his handsome, fiery eyes on me.
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