“Evidently,” said Hutchinson, heaping fuel to the leaping flames, “he has begun to amuse himself with Miss Harting.”
“I’ll get him!” cried Bent again, burning and freezing alternately with fury that made him tremble. “And I’ll make quick work of it!”
He wheeled from the window, but Hutch turned with equal swiftness and shot out a pair of hands that fastened upon him.
“Hold on,” said the manager. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to fix him—to fix him! Hands off! He can’t make a jest of that girl! Amuse himself with her, will he? His pleasure will be brief! Let me go!”
Exerting all his strength, Hutchinson swung the infuriated young man to one side, giving him a thrust that made him stagger. Springing to the door, the manager turned the key in the lock, removed it, and put it into his pocket. Again he faced King, one open hand upheld, palm outward.
“Open that door!” shouted Bent, his eyes glaring, a bit of white foam on his lips. “What are you trying to do?”
“I am trying to prevent you from making a fool of yourself,” answered the other calmly. “Listen to me a minute. Have you any regard whatever for Miss Harting?”
“Have I? I’m going to protect her from that wolf. Let me out!”
“Do you want to involve her in a scandal? In your present state of blind madness, you would rush after them and attack the man upon the street. A common scrap over a girl on Sunday—you know what that means. The burg would buzz with it; the young lady would feel herself humiliated and disgraced. Do you think you would gain favor in her eyes by such folly? Besides, you are no match for that fellow; you ought to know it, for you saw him whip Jock Hoover, and Hoover’s no slouch of a fighter. You would not make a very heroic figure in that sort of an affair.”