continued to look over the books, Mr. Mason meanwhile being busy at his desk in a smaller office beyond. Presently I heard my uncle's well-known step, and hurried out, meeting him just after he had been in his private office, which was behind all the others.
"Don't think that because it is your birthday you can neglect your work," he went on, in a rising voice. "This office is to be cleaned thoroughly every morning."
"I cleaned it thoroughly not half an hour ago," I replied stoutly.
"Do you mean to contradict me?" he cried.
"I'm telling the truth," was all I could say.
"Does that look like it?"
The floor certainly did not look like it. Bits of paper were strewn in all directions, and the bottle of ink on the desk had been upset, creating a small blue-black river, running diagonally over the oilcloth towards the safe that stood beside the window.
Of course I knew at once who had done all this. Gus had vowed to get square with me, and this was his method of doing so. Yet I could not help but wonder what the outcome would be.
"I say, does that floor look like it?" repeated Mr. Stillwell, in gathering wrath.
"I didn't do this, Uncle Felix."
