"He's probably somebody's father, and somebody's husband. You can't leave him there all night."
Spit challenged this. "Why can't we?"
"Because you can't. Fellows like you don't do that sort of thing."
It looked as if Tad Whitelaw had some special animosity against him, when he sprang from his chair to say insolently, "And fellows like you don't hang round where they're not wanted."
"Oh, Tom didn't mean anything—" Guy began to interpose.
"Then let him keep his mouth shut, or—" he nodded toward the door—"or get out."
Tom kept his temper, waiting till Tad dropped back into his chair again. "You see, it's this way. The old chap has a home, and if he doesn't come back to it in the course of, let us say, half an hour his family'll get scared. If they hunt him up at the shop, and find he's been locked in, they'll make a row at the police station just across the street. If the police get in on the business they're sure to find out who did it."
"Well, it won't be you, will it?" Tad sneered again.
"No, it won't be me, but even you don't want to be...."
Tad turned languidly to Guy. "Say, Guy! Awful pity isn't it about little Jennie Halligan! Cutest little dancer in the show, and she's fallen and broken her leg."