"Say, young feller, I don't allow nobody to say that to me!" blustered the fellow, advancing on Joe with an ugly look. "You'll either beg my pardon, or give me satisfaction! I'll——"
"Now here. None of that!" interposed the proprietor. "You aren't hurt, Wessel."
"How do you know? And didn't he accuse me of——"
"Oh, get out. You're always ready to pick a quarrel," went on the hotel man. "Move on!"
"Well, then let him beg my pardon," insisted the other. "If he don't, I'll take it out of him," and his clenched fist indicated his meaning only too plainly.
CHAPTER IX
JOE IS DRAFTED
For a moment Joe stood facing the angry man—unnecessarily angry, it seemed—since, even if the young ball player had trod on his foot, the injury could not have amounted to much.
"I told you once that I was sorry for having collided with you, though I do not believe it was my fault," spoke Joe, holding himself in check with an effort. "That is all I intend to say, and you may make the most of it."