Algo que es peor que disimular

with more citizens

F a head shorter than the shipping clerk, and apparently about half as
wide; but there was sincerity in his manner and an ominous snap in the
unflinching stare of his blue eyes. "Please yourself," he said quietly.
"Only--don't say I didn't warn you!" "Ah-h!" sneered George, truculent
in his amazement. "What's eatin' you?" "We're going to settle this
question before you leave this warehouse. I won't be called Perceval by
you or any other pink-eared cross between Balaam's ass and a laughing
hyena." Mr. Bross gaped with resentment, which gradually overcame his
better judgment. "You won't, eh?" he said stridently. "I'd like to know
what you're going to do to stop me, Perce--" P. Sybarite stepped quickly
toward him and George, with a growl, threw out his hands in a manner
based upon a somewhat hazy conception of the formulae of self-defence.
To his surprise, the open hand of the smaller man slipped swiftly past
what he called his "guard" and placed a smart, stinging slap upon lips
open to utter the syllable "val." Bearing with indignation, he swung his
right fist heavily for the head of P. Sybarite. Somehow, strangely, it
missed its goal and ... George Bross sat upon the dusty, grimy floor,
batted his eyes, ruefully rubbed the back of his head, and marvelled at
the reverberations inside it. Then he became conscious of P. Sybarite
some three feet distant, regarding him with tight-lipped interest. "Good
God!" George ejaculated with feeling. "Did _you_ do that to me?" "I
did," returned P. Sybarite curtly. "Want me to prove it?" "Plenty,
thanks," returned the shipping clerk morosely, as he picked himself up
and dusted off his clothing. "Gee! You got a wallop like the kick of a
mule, Per--" "Cut that!" "P.S., I m