"Ah, don't stop, pard," Tom begged of his cornered enemy. "Let 'em pound. It's just somebody else kickin' about de heat."
"We'll only stop a second. Ask what they want, and say I'll attend to it at once."
Tom, grumbling fiercely, opened the door. "What's de matter?" he demanded. "Ain't you got no heat?"
But it was not an angry tenant who stepped in from the darkness of the hall. It was Helen Chambers. She was flushed, and excitement quivered in her eyes. She looked from one pillow-fisted belligerent to the other, and said, smiling tremulously:
"I had thought there was no heat, but after looking at you I've decided there's plenty. Is this the way you always receive complainants?"
Tom glanced guiltily at David, then darted behind Helen and through the door. David gazed at her, loose-jawed. Suddenly he remembered his shirt-sleeves.
"I beg your pardon," he said, and in his bewilderment he tried to thrust his huge fists into his coat.
"Perhaps you can do that"—again the tremulous smile—"but I really don't think you can."
"I should take the gloves off, of course," he stammered. He frantically unlaced them, slipped into his coat, and then looked at her, throbbing with wonderment as to why she had come.
She did not leave him in an instant's doubt. She stepped toward him with outstretched hand, her smile gone, on her face eager, appealing earnestness.