“You’ll laugh out of the other side of your mouth in a day or two, Hazelton!” he rasped.
“I beg your pardon,” Tom returned, flushing. “My amusement does not concern you, King; and will you be good enough to call me Locke?”
“No, I will not; I’ll call you by your right name, which is Paul Hazelton. Deny it here, if you have the nerve.”
“Very well, I do deny it.”
“Then you’re a liar!”
He did not wait for the retaliation the insult seemed certain to bring, but leaped, with the final bitter word, at the accused man’s throat. Stepping sideways like a flash, Locke caught him as he sprang, whirled him round, slammed him up against the near-by partition, and held him there. The quickness and strength of the pitcher was amazing.
Instantly Stark sprang to part them, exclaiming:
“Don’t hit him, Tom—don’t hit him!”
“I haven’t any intention of hitting him—this time,” answered Locke. “But that was a nasty word he used, and he should be more careful.”