“If you want to keep your health,” said Philip, crouching, “you’ll beat it and leave me alone.”
Potter turned to the bartender, who no longer sprawled, but eyed him intently.
“This man is a German spy—trying to escape and warn other spies,” Potter said.
“No!” said the bartender, with profound astonishment. “You don’t tell me! Him? Why, I know him! He hain’t no spy—he’s a chauffeur.... You hain’t no spy, be you, Phil?”
“Certainly not. This guy is nutty.... Look here, Mr. Waite, I don’t want you should get hurt. Take your foot in your hand.”
“Are you coming with me?” Potter asked, sharply.
“Not on a Friday. Fridays is unlucky days.” He did not take his eyes off Potter’s face, but stood with a pugilist’s crouch, waiting. Potter sprang toward him, took Philip’s blow upon the side of the head, and closed in. They grappled, whirled about, trampling the floor until the glasses behind the bar danced upon the shelves. Potter was larger, stronger. He succeeded in lifting Philip from his feet and hurling him to the floor, but Philip clung to him, forcing him to sprawl on top of his prisoner. In a moment of fierce energy Potter was kneeling upon Philip’s arms and sitting upon his chest.
The stout man who had dozed in the corner shuffled to his feet and approached leisurely.
“This man is a spy. Help me tie him,” Potter panted.
“For sure,” said the man, stepping behind Potter. Then Potter felt something hard jammed against his ribs. He did not see it, nor could he feel its shape, but he knew what it was.