"Nella," P. Sybarite interpolated in an imperative tone, momentarily distracting November's attention—"Nella says to tell you she wants you—now—immediately. Do you get that?"
"Damn Nella!" snapped the gang leader. "Tell her to go to the devil. And you"—he menaced P. Sybarite with a formidable look—"you slide outa here—in a hurry! See?"
With this, rising in his place, he put forth a hand to detain the boy, who was sullenly pushing past the woman.
"Wait!" he insisted. "You can't go before you pay up—"
Whipping from his pocket a note (of what denomination he never knew—but it was large) P. Sybarite slapped it down upon the table.
"That'll pay whatever he owes," he announced, and to the boy: "Clear out—quick—do you hear!—while you've got a chance—"
"What t'ell business is it of yours?" November demanded, turning upon him furiously.
With an enigmatic smile, P. Sybarite dexterously tipped up his side of the table and, overturning it, caught the gangster unprepared for any such manoeuvre and pinned him squirming in the angle of wall and floor.
Immediately the woman came to her feet shrieking; while the little man seized the befuddled boy and swung him toward the door actually before he realised what was happening.
Simultaneously, November's henchmen at the adjoining table leapt into the brawl with an alacrity that sent their chairs clattering back upon the floor.