ANGEL PAVEMENT

"For the more we are too-gether," Fred sang, as his
hand closed round the whisky bottle, "the merrier we
will bee-yer."

The fuse had been burning briskly for some time, and
now its travelling spark reached the explosive. Mr.
Smeeth blew up. "Get out," he screamed at Mitty. "Get
out of here. Go on. Get out.'*

"That's the stuff," shouted George from the doorway.

But that scream was not enough for such an explosion
of wrath. Two seconds later, Mr. Smeeth had flung
down the little table and sent whisky and port and dirty
glasses and cake and biscuits and oranges flying about
the room. All was roaring chaos, with Fred Mitty
shouting, the two wives screaming, Dot Mitty shrieking
with laughter, Edna bursting into tears, George charging
forward, and Mr. Smeeth standing in the middle, bellow-
ing and stamping among the ruins. All the others
jumped up and there was a pushing and jostling and Mr.
Smeeth lost his eyeglasses and had no hope of finding
them in the scrimmage. Nothing could be plainly heard
in the din, and now, for Mr. Smeeth, robbed of his
glasses, nothing could be plainly seen. His wife seemed
to be shaking his arm and shrieking at him; Mrs. Mitty
seemed to have hurled herself at Fred, to prevent further
violence; and George appeared to be taking a hand in
all the proceedings. But in another minute, he was alone
in the room, and all the others seemed to be talking at
the top of their voices outside. Feeling shaky, he made
a step or two towards a chair, and trod on some glass.
His own eyeglasses were still on the floor somewhere,
and no doubt somebody had trodden on them. He
collapsed into the chair, and in a dazed fashion removed
a strange soggy substance from his left bootsole. It was