“Now I know you’re no better than——”
But that was as far as Teddie got. For the door was flung open and a protesting and much dishevelled Louis Lipsett was piloted into the room. He was piloted in without ceremony, and by the lapel of his overcoat. The hand that grasped that collar was Gunboat Dorgan’s, and the lines of his wide mouth were grim with determination.
“Call off this wildcat,” gasped Louis as he dropped weakly into a chair. “Call him or I’ll get a shooting-iron and kill him!”
Gerry tried to remove the steel-corded hand from the uptwisted coat-collar, but Gunboat Dorgan betrayed no slightest intention of relaxing his hold.
“Not on your life,” he irately announced. “Not until he eats every word of it!”
“Of what?” demanded Gerry, with an abstracted and mildly perplexed inspection of Louis Lipsett’s person.
“Don’t listen to him,” cried the prisoner. “He’s gone crazy. He’s gummed up the whole game. He came tearing into Uhlan’s studio when I had the big bounder scared stiff, had him eating out of my hand and willing to sign any kind of quitclaim I was ready to hand out. He blew in there ready to eat Uhlan up, until he found out I was from The Star and heard that tricky brush-tickler swear his lips were sealed and then step from under by saying it was me and my paper that were going to open up on a full-page story. Me, mind you, with all I’d done! Then this East Side rat-terrier let loose, and wouldn’t even give me a chance to get to a phone and have you put things straight or call up our sporting-editor to shoot a little reason into his empty nut. He’s hauled me around like a civet-bag and dragged me down here across eleven city blocks to say what you very well know I don’t even need to say. And I call this a fine line of reporting, this ghost-laying for a bunch of love-sick idiots who’re so afraid of printer’s ink they’re playing tennis with bank-checks over it. For I’m not the only thing he’s collared, I want y’ to understand. He collared old Shotwell as well and shook that twenty-five-thousand-dollar draft out of him and has got it right here in his jeans while he’s joy-riding on the back of my neck! But I’m tired of being bullyragged and manhandled and having my clothes spoilt, and if this rising star of suburban ring doesn’t get his fingers out of my back hair inside of ten seconds I’m going to let loose with something more than ink before the day is over.”
“Let him go!” commanded Gerry, in his most authoritative grand-jury voice. “This man is acting for Miss Hayden, is very generously and unselfishly acting for Miss Hayden.”
“Am I now?” gritted Louis Lipsett, breathing hard and writhing his disordered clothing back into place.
“Well, so am I,” averred Gunboat Dorgan as he tossed Teddie’s much crumpled check out on the cherrywood table. “And I want ’o know,” he continued as he confronted Gerry West, “just what call yuh’ve got for buttin’ in on this?”