“Until half-past three—or three.”
“Or half-past two—or two,” mocked the other.
“Well, what of it?” asked Myron coldly. He knew now that Eldredge intended trouble. “What did you want me for?”
“Oh, nothing much. I just wanted to give you something.”
“I don’t want it, thanks,” replied Myron. He turned to go on, but Eldredge stepped in front of him.
“Don’t, eh? Wait till you know what it is, Mister Smug!” Eldredge’s arm shot out. Although he had not guessed the other’s intention, Myron caught sight of the movement and instinctively stepped back. The blow, aimed at his face, landed lightly on his chest. Prompted by a rage as sudden as Eldredge’s attack, Myron’s right hand swept swiftly up from his side and caught his opponent fairly on the side of the face with open palm. The sound of the slap and Eldredge’s snarl of mingled surprise and pain came close together. Staggered by the blow, Eldredge fell back a pace. Then he sprang forward again.
“You—you——” he stammered wildly.
But Rogers, stout and unwieldy, threw himself between in a panic of entreaty. “Don’t, Paul! Not here! Some one’s coming! You’ll get the very dickens! You crazy dub, will you quit? Paul——”
“No, I won’t!” grunted Eldredge, trying to shove Rogers aside. “He can’t hit me and get away with it! I’ll show him——”
“Let him alone,” said Myron.