Part 36 (1/2)

”I reckon you'll have to git up,” announced Jim Hunter, putting a helping hand under one of Dalton's arms.

”I can't--oh, stop! Let up! My foot's crushed. I can't stand on it!”

yelled Dalton.

Hunter came quickly to realize the fact that Dalton could not stand with much comfort. Joe came up with a chair, onto which the prisoner was allowed to sink.

”Oh, you boys think you've finished things for me, don't you?” leered Dalton, glaring around him in a rage. ”But you haven't. You'll soon find that you've just begun to stir up trouble for yourselves.”

”Go easy, man--do!” begged Hunter, soothingly. ”Of course yer pet corn feels bad just now. But, say! That's the niftiest way of stopping a bad man, I reckon, thet was ever invented.”

”Is it?” groaned Dalton. Then, catching the trace of a smirk in Hank's eyes, the rascal shook his fist at the steward of the ”Restless,”

snarling:

”I'll find my own way to settle with you!”

”Take your time--when you're feeling better,” Hank begged, cheerfully.

Fair-haired, soft-voiced young Dawley had followed the crowd out into the corridor. The hotel clerk, the proprietor and three or four of the servants all had increased the crowd there. Dawley rapidly learned what had happened.

”It's a beastly outrage,” he announced, his soft voice sounding almost harsh in the indignation that he felt.

”Oh, take a fan, Dolly, and go out on the porch to cool off,” growled Joe Dawson.

One of the servants, in the excess of excitement, actually took the fair-haired youth by the shoulders, and, though the latter protested, thrust him out through the open door onto the porch, slamming the door after him.

”That's too bad,” grinned Hank. ”I'll go out and see if the poor fellow has fainted.”

As b.u.t.ts stepped out on the porch, closing the door shut after him, Dawley, his cheeks very red, leaped out from the chair into which he had sunk.

”It was you who played that mean trick on my friend,” cried Dawley, in a voice which he fondly believed trembled with rage.

”Yes,” admitted Hank, meekly.

”I'll punish you for that!” quivered the soft-voiced one, stepping forward.

”Don't strike me on the wrist,” pleaded Hank. ”I have rheumatism there.”

But Dawley, too angry, or else too dull to understand that he was being made a mark for ridicule, continued to advance upon b.u.t.ts, who retreated, a look of mock alarm in his face.

”Keep away from me--please do, while you're angry,” begged Hank, still retreating.

”I won't!” snapped Dawley. As Hank now retreated rapidly backward, Dawley went after him with corresponding speed.

”If you must have it, then, why--take it!” cried Hank, in a tone of desperation.

One of his hands had been held under his rain-coat all along. Now Hank thrust the other hand inside, as well, to reach for some object concealed there.

”Oh. O-o-oh! Don't you drop that weight on my foot!” yelled Dawley, blanching and falling up against the wooden wall.