He had refrained from interfering as long as he could, well knowing his present physical weakness and what a mix-up might mean to him if the police happened along, but this ill-treatment was a little more than he could stand, despite all possible consequences.
The moment Smiler was released, the boy ran to the door and away.
Meantime, McGregor pulled himself together and began to laugh as if from his stomach.
“I guess that means a scrap,” he grunted.
“Not that I know of,” put in Phil. “But I like to see fair play. The youngster wasn’t hurting you.”
For answer McGregor unbuckled his belt and handed it to his friend called Stitchy, spitting noisily on the saw-dusted floor.
The hotel proprietor jumped over the counter and interfered.
“There’s going to be no rough-house here. If you fools want to fight get out on the back lot where there’s plenty of room. Come on,––out you go! The whole caboodle of you!”
He and his assistant––both burly men––cleared the bar.
Phil was among the last to leave, and, in a faint hope of avoiding trouble, he turned aside, but McGregor sprang after him and laid hold.