Joe looked at Tompkinson and saw that he was becoming black in the face.
“Run for a doctor,” he commanded, at the same time throwing himself down beside Tompkinson.
He held the fellow’s head with his left hand and hastily thrust his fingers into the rascal’s mouth. Far down, he could feel the obstruction. He reached still farther, caught it with one of his fingers and with a great effort pulled it out. It was, as the waiter had said, a set of false teeth that had been dislodged by his blow.
He propped Tompkinson up against the side of the room, tore his collar open and chafed his wrists.
“Bring me some water from the table,” he commanded Harrish, who stood white and shaking.
The latter complied and they dashed the water into Tompkinson’s face.
The treatment was effective, and in a few moments Tompkinson opened his eyes and looked around. His eyes glowed with malignity as they fixed themselves on Joe.
“I’ll fix you for this,” he mumbled, as well as he could from the absence of his teeth.
Joe and Harrish lifted the man to his feet and seated him in a chair. Hardly had they done so when the waiter returned with the house physician, the manager, and a policeman, who had been hastily summoned.
They closed the door behind them so as to insure privacy and faced Joe and Harrish.