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Tom smiled at the Fleming — a bright, friendly smile — and bobbed his head courteously. That confused the jolt-head. Then, by way of making conversation while his confederates gained their positions, he said, “I suppose someone must have told you — your mother, perhaps, or your father, though I doubt you ever knew him — that you’re an idle-headed canker. A rank pustule? No? Not even an irksome, crook-pated, pathetical nit?”The Fleming, his face as red as hot steel, roared and swung a fist like a blacksmith’s hammer.
