All at once and before Harran had a chance to knock on the door, Annixter flung it open.
His face was blazing with anger, his outthrust lip more prominent than ever, his wiry, yellow hair in disarray, the tuft on the crown sticking straight into the air like the upraised hackles of an angry hound.
Evidently he had been dressing himself with the most headlong rapidity; he had not yet put on his coat and vest, but carried them over his arm, while with his disengaged hand he kept hitching his suspenders over his shoulders with a persistent and hypnotic gesture.

Without a moment's pause he gave vent to his indignation in a torrent of words.
"Ah, yes, in my bed, sloop, aha! I know the man who put it there," he went on, glaring at Osterman, "and that man is a PIP.

Sloop! Slimy, disgusting stuff; you heard me say I didn't like it when the Chink passed it to me at dinner--and just for that reason you put it in my bed, and I stick my feet into it when I turn in.

Funny, isn't it?
Oh, yes, too funny for any use.

I'd laugh a little louder if I was you." "Well, Buck," protested Harran, as he noticed the hat in Annixter's hand, "you're not going home just for----" Annixter turned on him with a shout.
"I'll get plumb out of here," he trumpeted.