“I’ve the train tickets; come along to the hotel–––” exclaimed the man who quickly entered. But the words died in his mouth at sight of Weir sitting in the place he had vacated.
He was over average height, of strong fleshy build, with a small blonde mustache on his upper lip. Under his eyes little pouches had already begun to form; his mouth was full and sensual; but he still retained an air of liveliness, of carelessness and agility, that might at first sight seem the spontaneity of youth. He wore a brown suit, a gray flannel shirt and Stetson hat––the common apparel of the country.
“Who the devil are you? And what are you butting in here for?” he exclaimed, with a vicious spark showing in his pale blue eyes. At the same time he clapped a hand on Weir’s shoulder, closing it in a hard grasp.
Instantly Weir struck the hand off with his fist.
“Keep your dirty flippers to yourself,” he said, rising.
The blood faded from the other’s countenance, leaving it white with rage.
“Get out of this booth, or I’ll throw you out.”
It was Weir’s turn to act. Like a flash he caught Sorenson’s elbow, jerked him forward, spun him about and dropped him upon the chair.
“Sit there, you cradle-robber, until I’m through 35 with you,” he commanded. “And if you don’t want everybody in this restaurant to know about your business with this girl, you’ll lower your voice when you talk.”
Sorenson shot an uneasy glance towards the curtain and his wrath became not less furious but better controlled. Clearly public attention was the last thing he desired in this affair. He leaned back, staring at Steele Weir insolently, and produced a cigarette, at which he began to puff.