“How many did you come out with to-night?”
“Guess!” proposed Joe pleasantly.
“Don’t dare to be impertinent, boy!” warned Don Emilio, his eyes flashing. “Answer me straight, and—what do you call it?—to the point, as you Americans say.”
“Lemon?” laughed Joe Dawson coolly. “No, thank you. I always take vanilla.”
“Boy, if you get me any more angry,” stormed Don Emilio, “you will regret it.”
But Dawson merely looked at the swarthy, false-bearded little man with an air of boredom.
“Let me handle him,” proposed Jonas French, stepping forward.
“I’ll be glad if you will wait on me,” drawled Joe, looking at the larger man. “I don’t believe this little fellow knows his business or his goods.”
With an angered cry Don Emilio darted in, striking his cool tormentor across the face.
“Hold on,” objected Joe lazily, “I didn’t ask to be called until nine o’clock.”