"Gee!" Charlotte said, "I was sure hopin' you wouldn't let him."
"Why—I never thought of it."
"Most fellows would. He's a tough."
It was an introduction to an unfamiliar world. The "tough" came to their table and asked for a dance in thick accents. Charlotte paled and accepted. Hugo refused. "Say, bo, I'm askin' for a dance. I got concessions here. You can't refuse me, see? I guess you got me wrong."
"Beat it," Hugo said, "before I take a poke at you."
The intruder's answer was a swinging fist, which missed Hugo by a wide margin. Hugo stood and dropped him with a single clean blow. The manager came up, expostulated, ordered the tough's inert form from the floor, started the music.
"You shouldn't ought to have done it, mister. He'll get his gang."
"The hell with his gang."
Charlotte sighed. "That's the first time anybody ever stuck up for me. Jeest, mister, I've been wishin' an' wishin' for the day when somebody would bruise his knuckles for me."
Hugo laughed. "Hey, waiter! Two beers."