On a chair in a corner
the scullery-maid sobbed and whooped. The odd-job man, who was a
baseball enthusiast, was speaking in terms of high praise of
Eustace's combined speed and control.
The only calm occupant of the room was Eustace himself, who,
either through a shortage of ammunition or through weariness of
the pitching-arm, had suspended active hostilities, and was now
looking down on the scene from a high shelf. There was a brooding
expression in his deep-set eyes. He massaged his right ear with
the sole of his left foot in a somewhat _distrait_ manner.
'Eustace!' cried Lady Wetherby, severely.
Eustace lowered his foot and gazed at her meditatively, then at
the odd-job man, then at the scullery-maid, whose voice rose high
above the din.
'I rather fancy, m'lady,' said Wrench, dispassionately, 'that the
animal is about to hurl a plate.'
It had escaped the notice of those present that the shelf on which
the rioter had taken refuge was within comfortable reach of the
dresser, but Eustace himself had not overlooked this important
strategic point. As the butler spoke, Eustace picked up a plate
and threw it at the scullery-maid, whom he seemed definitely to
have picked out as the most hostile of the allies. It was a fast
inshoot, and hit the wall just above her head.
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