Helene Spenceley was there; her voice had told him; but he took no account of that in the choking, blinding rage which now controlled him.
Before Stott could use his cowardly weapon again Wallie sprang for him, and with the force and rapidity of a trained fighter landed blow after blow on the heavy jaw which made a fine target.
"You——horse-killer! You——braggart and cheapskate! You——shyster and ambulance chaser!" And with every epithet Wallie landed a punch that made the lawyer stagger.
It was not "nice" language; it was not a "nice" thing to do, possibly, and perhaps the "soft answer" would have been better, but the time had passed when Wallie set any store by being merely "nice," and he had forgotten Helene Spenceley's presence, though in any event it would have made no difference.
There was only one thought in his mind as he sat astride Stott's chest when Stott went down finally, and that was to make him say "Enough!" if he had to hammer him past recognition.
This did not require so long as one would have thought, considering that person's boasts as to his courage, but, at that, Stott might well be excused for wishing to end the punishment he was receiving. In the face above him, almost brutal in the fury that stamped it, there was no trace to remind Stott of the youth who had painted cabbage roses and knit sweaters.
"Let me up!" he cried, finally, struggling under the merciless blows that rained upon him.
"Say it!" Wallie's voice was implacable.
"'Nough!" Stott whined it.
Wallie stopped immediately, and the attorney got to his feet, sullen and humiliated. He stood for a moment rubbing his neck and eyeing Wallie; then with a return of defiance flung at him: