Page:Levenson - Butterfly Man.djvu/54



MR. LOWELL swayed again so that Ken thought he would fall.

"Where have you been?" he finally cackled.

"Out riding."

"With whom?"

"One of the school kids."

Ken noticed that one of Mr. Lowell's eyes drooped. He was about to put an arm around the old man's shoulder and guide him to his own room, when Mr. Lowell snapped:

"A girl?"

"A girl," Ken replied, a note of defiance in his voice.

Mr. Lowell wrested himself away from Ken's embrace. He uttered an inchoate sound and his face became black. Saliva drooled from his lips and over his beard.

"I just happened to meet her in a drug store, that's all," Ken explained.

"You talked to her—you!" Mr. Lowell's hand was doubled into a fist.

"Why, of course, I did," Ken said, honestly.

"About me!" shrilly cried Mr. Lowell.

On the mantel was a French clock, a Watteau shepherdess holding aloft a disc, on the face of which toy hands of gold pointed to the minutes and hours. Mr. Lowell seized the disc from the hands of the shepherdess and hurled it at Ken.

"You can't talk about me!" Mr. Lowell screamed.