“Gad! You're—you're Captain Mayo! I'll be cursed if I knew you till you spoke!”
“I managed to hold myself in the last time you saw me, Fogg. I was waiting. Now, damn you, I've got you!”
He was making reference merely to the physical grip in which he held the man. But Fogg seemed to find deeper significance in the words.
“I know it, Mayo,” he whined. “That's why I'm down here. I have been wondering about the best way to get to you—to meet you right!”
“You got to me all right, you infernal renegade!”
“But, see here, Mayo, we can't talk this matter here on the street.”
“There isn't going to be any talking!” The meeting-up had been so unexpected and Mayo's ire was so hasty that the young man had not taken thought of what he intended to do. His impulse was to beat that fat face into pulp. He had long before given up all hope that any appeal to Fogg as a man would help. He expected no consideration, no restitution.
“But there must be some talk. I'm here to make it. You have me foul! I admit it. But listen to reason,” he pleaded. “It isn't going to do you any good to rave.”
“I'm going to mash your face for you! I'll take the consequences.”
“But after you do that, you still have got to talk turkey with me about those papers.”