Thus the red-haired lad, before whom reposed a leather suit-case bearing the name,—neatly stenciled on one end,—"H. Taylor, U.S.N."
"I've lost my wallet," came the rejoinder in angry, high-pitched tones. "It had most of my pay in it, too."
"Well, what's the matter with looking in your own pocket?" sputtered Herc Taylor indignantly.
"I did, but I can't find it."
"So you assume that I'm the thief, do you?"
This was certainly a conversation to attract attention. Both speakers appeared to be in highly belligerent moods. Several of the passengers seated in the vicinity of the excitement began to rise in their seats and crane their necks, the better to behold the "scrap" that appeared imminent.
But those nearest to the pair saw that Herc Taylor's large, freckled fist had closed on the wrist of the other's investigating hand, so that, for the present at any rate, the latter was not able to attempt retaliation except verbally.
Herc was neatly but quietly dressed in a gray-mixture suit. His seat-mate, the one who had made the ugly accusation, wore clothes that appeared to have been rather neglected recently. They were crumpled and stained and the whole air of the fellow, despite his healthy-looking tan, was slouchy and shiftless.
Herc glared straight into the other's eyes for possibly the space of a minute or so. Before his direct glance the slouchy-looking youth's eyes fell.
"Aw, leggo my hand, will yer?" he muttered.