"Steady, sir,—steady!" came in a hushed, agitated voice from Mr. Spangler, who appeared to be addressing himself exclusively to the red-faced person. "Let me manage it,—please."
"Who the devil is this bally old blighter?" demanded Stuyvie loudly.
"Leave him to me, Spangler," said the red-faced man. "I have a few choice words I—"
"Here! Confound you! Keep off of my toes, you fool! I say, Spangler, what's the matter with you? Throw him out! He's—"
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!"
"I ought to knock your block off," said Mr. McFaddan, without raising his voice. As his face was within six inches of Stuyvesant's nose, the young man had no difficulty whatever in hearing what he said, and yet it should not be considered strange that he failed to understand. In all fairness, it must be said that he was bewildered. Under the circumstances any one would have been bewildered. Being spoken to in that fashion by a man you've never seen before in your life is, to say the least, surprising. "I'll give you ten seconds to apologize."
"Ap—apologize? Confound you, what do you mean? You're drunk."
"I said ten seconds," growled Cornelius.
"And then what?" gulped Stuyvie.
"A swat on the nose," said Mr. McFaddan.