“Oh, shut up, Hube!” It was Wallace, at Henshaw’s side, who spoke; even in the stupefaction of his anger David saw that on Wallace’s face a look of concern was overspreading its habitual good nature; Wallace was plucking at his cousin’s sleeve. “Shut up, Hube; you make me tired!”
“If you sat at our table, that necktie would make you tired. What’s the reason that you never make a change, Ives? Is it your only one?”
David’s eyes were hard and glittering. With a suddenness that startled every one he gave Henshaw a resounding slap on the cheek with his open hand. Henshaw staggered from the blow and stood for an instant, blinking, gathering pugnacity, while his cheek showed the livid marks of David’s fingers. Before he could retaliate, Mr. Dean was sweeping the crowd aside and exclaiming in a stern voice, “Henshaw, Ives, what’s this?”
They both looked at him, silent, equally defiant. David felt that he could justify himself and that he must not—a feeling that intensified his bitterness. Why should an act prompted by righteous indignation disgrace and discredit him before the man who had been ready to befriend him?
“You may go now.” Mr. Dean’s eyes were as stern as his voice.
The two principals in the row were escorted by a crowd out of the door and down the steps. At the bottom Henshaw turned and said to David, “You’ve got to fight me for this.”
“It will be a pleasure,” David answered bitterly.
Meanwhile Wallace and Monroe had remained behind, close to Mr. Dean. Wallace was the first to speak.
“Mr. Dean,” he said, “I hope you won’t report Ives. He simply had to slap Huby’s face.”
“Why?”