“Don’t let’s take the elevated,” suggested Joe. “We haven’t had much exercise, and I want to stretch my legs a little.”
“I’m agreeable,” replied Jim. “There’s a cool breeze and it’s a nice night for walking. We can go part of the way on foot, anyway, and if we feel like it we’ll hoof it for the whole distance.”
They soon got below the Harlem River and before long found themselves in the vicinity of Columbus Circle. They were passing one of the fashionable cafés that abound in that quarter when the door opened and a man came out. Joe caught a good look at his face, and a grim look came into his eyes as he recognized Beckworth Fleming.
Fleming saw him at the same time, and the eyes of the two men met in a look of undisguised hostility. Then with an ugly sneer, Fleming remarked:
“Ah, Mr. Matson, I believe. Or was it Mr. Buttinski? I’m not very good at remembering names.”
“You’ll remember mine if I have to write it on you with my knuckles,” returned Joe, brought to a white heat by the insult and the remembrance of the occurrence of the day before.
“Now, my good fellow——” began Fleming, a look of alarm replacing his insolent expression.
“Don’t ‘good fellow’ me,” replied Joe. “I owe you a thrashing and I’m perfectly able to pay my debts. You’d have gotten it yesterday if we’d been alone.”
“I—I don’t understand you,” stammered Fleming, looking about him for some way of escape from the sinewy figure that confronted him.
“Well, I’m going to make myself so clear that even your limited intelligence can understand me,” said Joe, grimly. “You keep away from the Marlborough Hotel. Is that perfectly plain?”