She did so and the two antagonists passed out.
“Now close it again, please,” called Tom, who did not want her to see what was going to happen.
The instant the door clicked Tom released his hold on Hankinshaw’s collar, measured the distance and gave him a tremendous kick that sent him forward as though he had been struck by a catapult. The man tried to keep his balance, but was unable to do so and went down to the sidewalk on his hands and knees. He scrambled snarling to his feet, to find himself facing Tom, whose face was blazing with wrath.
“Now take yourself off, you loafer,” commanded Tom. “That kick was only a sample of what I’ll do to you if you don’t. Get along now, or I’ll muss you up so that your best friends won’t know you.”
There was such deadly determination in the youth’s voice and the force of that kick had been so mighty that Hankinshaw, who had clenched his fists, thought better of it and, contenting himself with a string of coarse expressions, slouched on along the street. Tom watched him until he had disappeared and then returned to the door, which opened at his approach.
“I hope you didn’t get into a fight, Tom,” Mary said anxiously.
Tom’s eyes twinkled.
“Nothing like that,” he laughed. “Do I look it? Is my hair mussed? No, I simply had a little football practice. Hankinshaw was the football. I kicked him for a goal. I guess you won’t see any more of him. He’s due to get out of this town anyway in a few days more.”
Mary sighed happily.
“You’re our good angel, Tom,” she said. “You saved my father’s life once, and you always turn up when I need you most. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”