Tom Clifton, painfully conscious that he had made no effort to defend himself, and feeling the various assortment of punches which Victor had liberally bestowed upon him, suddenly decided that his reputation would suffer unless some decisive action was taken.
A good shaking, he thought, would be about the proper thing.
“I’ll tend to him myself, Bob. Leave the whole thing to me!” he cried.
While Victor squirmed and struggled in Bob Somers’ strong grasp, Charlie, bubbling over with mirth, had secured a firm hold on Tom Clifton’s arm.
“I guess the circus has been too much for somebody’s nerves,” he chuckled. “Better stop. There are about eighteen people looking over.”
“I don’t care!” stormed Tom.
“I do,” said Bob. “Let’s begin at the beginning, and come to the end fast. Victor seems peeved about something. Speak up, Vic: what’s the trouble?”
Realizing that the odds were too great to overcome, Victor simmered down.
“There’d be thirty-nine people looking at us if I had my way,” he said, sullenly. “This thing isn’t ended yet. Tall Indians are easy for me.”
“Then explanations ought to be easy,” laughed Bob.