“I’m going out on the platform and look the femmes over,” the other Marine announced, jumping down from the stand and going toward the door. “See you later, Panama!”
As Williams tipped the negro and reached for his hat, his attention was again centered upon Lefty.
“I say, did you see the game to-day, friend?”
Again there was no response save for Lefty’s moving away and the nervous twitching of his fingers.
Panama was at peace with the world now, and in a keen mood for happy chiding.
“You must be a Yale man that probably lost dough,” he heckled. “It’s all right, feller. Those things will happen—I lost five bucks myself—but it’s hard to believe that guy’s silly play was on the level. If you ask me, I think he got a piece of change from the Harvard crowd!”
At these words, Lefty’s face became livid with rage.
His play was stupid, he was aware of that, and he expected to be a source of ridicule for the entire world for the rest of his life, but accusing him of deliberately throwing the game was more than he could stand.
He rose, glared at the unsuspecting sergeant for a moment, pulled off his coat and threw his hat on the floor, crossing the room to where Panama stood and confronted the man, to the utter amazement of the old negro.
“You’re a liar!” he shrieked, “a dirty, contemptible liar! Take that back—take it back, or I’ll knock your block off!”