In spite of his fury, Mayo realized from Fogg's demeanor and his words that mere fear of a whipping was not producing this humility; there was a policeman on the corner.
“Don't talk so loud,” urged Fogg. “Come up to my room where we can be private.”
Mayo hesitated, puzzled by his enemy's attitude.
“It's a word from the Old Man himself. He ordered me down here. It's from Marston!” whispered the promoter. “I'm in a devil of a hole all around, Mayo.”
“Very well! I'll come. I can beat you up in your room more comfortably!”
“I'm not afraid of the beating! I wish that was all there was to it,” muttered Fogg. He led the way into the hotel and Mayo followed, getting a new grip on himself, conscious that there was some new crisis in his affairs, scenting surrender of some sort in Fogg's astonishing humility.
“Will you smoke?” asked Fogg, obsequiously, when they were in the hotel room.
“No!” He refused with venom. He saw himself in one of the long mirrors and had not realized until then how unkempt and uncouth he was. He was ill at ease when he sat down in a cushioned chair. For weeks he had been accustomed to the rude makeshifts of shipboard. In temper and looks he felt like a cave-man.
“I'm in hopes that we can get together on some kind of a friendly basis,” entreated Fogg, humbly. “Simply fighting the thing over again won't get us anywhere. I had to do certain things and I did them. You spoke of my iron wishbone! Now about that Montana matter—”
“I don't want any rehearsal, Mr. Fogg. What's your business with me?”