“You’re through with us, aren’t you?” growled Braxton.
Joe laughed outright.
“Oh, dear no,” he said, as he rose to his feet. “There’s just one little thing to attend to yet. I’m going to thrash you within an inch of your life.”
Braxton made a dash for the door, but Joe caught him a clip on the jaw that sent him staggering back into a corner.
“Now Jim,” said Joe, “suppose you take that little rat out,” pointing to Fleming, “and drop him somewhere. He got his dose when the ball knocked him out in the bleachers, and that perhaps will be enough for him. Lieutenant,” he went on, turning to Doyle, “you’re a policeman, and might feel called on to stop any scene of violence. I feel it in my bones that there’s going to be a little violence here—just a little. Would you mind stepping outside and seeing whether the car is all right?”
“Sure,” replied Doyle, with a grin and a wink.
“Now, you cur,” said Joe, as he turned to Braxton, “take off your coat. It’s a long account I have to settle with you, and I’m going to give you the licking of your life.”
There was no way out, and Braxton took off his coat and closed in. He was a big man and fought with the desperation of a cornered rat. He got in one or two wild blows that did no damage. Joe smashed him right and left, knocked him down and lifted him to his feet to knock him down again, until Braxton, beaten to a finish, refused to get up, and lay in a heap in a corner, fairly sobbing with rage and pain and shame.
“Just one little bit of news, Braxton,” said Joe, as he turned to leave. “You’ve lost your bets. The Giants won!”