,--not angry, nor exasperated, nor
aggravated, nor provoked, but mad: not mad according to the dictionary,
that is, crazy, but mad as we common folk use the term. So I say my friend
Pitkin was mad. I thought so when I heard the angry click-clack of his
heels on the cement walk, and I carefully put all the chairs against the
wall; I was sure of it when the door slammed, and I set the coal scuttle
in the corner behind the stove. There was no doubt of it when he mounted
the stairs three steps at a time, and I hastily cleared his side of the
desk. You may wonder why I did all these things, but you have never seen
Pitkin mad.

Why was Pitkin mad? I did not then know. I had not seen him yet, for I was
so busy--so very, very busy--that I did not look up when he slammed his
books on the desk with a resounding whack which caused the ink bottle to
tremble and the lampshade to clatter as though chattering its teeth with
fear, while the pens and pencils, tumbling from the holder, scurried away
to hide themselves under the desk.

I was still busily engaged with my books while he threw his wet overcoat
and dripping hat on the white bedspread and kicked his rubbers under the
stove, the smell of which soon warned me to rescue them before they
melted. Pitkin must be very mad this time. He was taking off his collar
and even his shoes. Pitkin always took off his collar when very mad, and
if especially so, put on his slippers, even if he had to change them again
in fifteen minutes.

"What are you doing? Why don't you say something? You are a pretty fellow
not to speak or even look up." Such was Pitkin's first remark. Sometimes
he was talkative and would insist on giving his opinion of things in
general. At other times he preferred to be left alone to bury himself and
his wrath in his books. Since he had failed to poke the fire, though the
room was very warm, I had decided that he would dive into his books and be
heard no more until a half hour past his suppertime, but I had made a
mistake. Today he was in a talkative mood, and knowing that work was
impossible, I devoted the next half hour to listening to a dissertation on
the general perverseness of human nature, and to an elaborate description
of my friend Pitkin's scheme for endowing a rival institution with a
hundred million, and making things so cheap and attractive that our
university would have to go out of business. When Pitkin reached this
point, I knew that I could safely ask th