"Well, you have the requisite amount in your clothes," Murchison was saying. "But I fancy you'll have to move fast if you want to stand any chance."
"Why?"
"Because she has——"
The rest of the remark was cut short by Pendleton's gloves falling with a snap across Porshinger's mouth.
"What the devil!" cried he, sitting up.
Crack! Again the gloves came down, and a button marked the skin of the cheek till the blood oozed out.
"I don't like the cut of your coat, Mr. Porshinger!" said Pendleton. "And just because I don't like it I'm going to give you a thrashing. Stand up and defend yourself. I don't want to hit even a cur when he's down."
"What in hell do you mean?" Porshinger shouted. "I've got no quarrel with you, Pendleton! What in hell do I care whether you like the cut of my coat or not—I'm no tailor."
"Aren't you? I thought you were—I apologize to the tailors," said Pendleton easily. "Put up your hands, you dirty scoundrel, or haven't you a single spark of courage in you?"
"I don't understand you!" protested Porshinger, edging away. "What have I done to you, Pendleton?"