"You don't seem to have your iron wishbone in your pocket this time,"
growled the assailant. He jabbed his thumbs cruelly into Fogg's ribs.
"Gad! You're--you're Captain Mayo! I'll be cursed if I knew you till you
spoke!"
"I managed to hold myself in the last time you saw me, Fogg. I was
waiting. Now, damn you, I've got you!"
He was making reference merely to the physical grip in which he held the
man. But Fogg seemed to find deeper significance in the words.
"I know it, Mayo," he whined. "That's why I'm down here. I have been
wondering about the best way to get to you--to meet you right!"
"You got to me all right, you infernal renegade!"
"But, see here, Mayo, we can't talk this matter here on the street."
"There isn't going to be any talking!" The meeting-up had been so
unexpected and Mayo's ire was so hasty that the young man had not taken
thought of what he intended to do. His impulse was to beat that fat face
into pulp. He had long before given up all hope that any appeal to Fogg
as a man would help. He expected no consideration, no restitution.
"But there must be some talk. I'm here to make it. You have me foul! I
admit it. But listen to reason," he pleaded. "It isn't going to do you
any good to rave."
"I'm going to mash your face for you! I'll take the consequences."
"But after you do that, you still have got to talk turkey with me about
those papers."
In spite of his fury, Mayo realized from Fogg's demeanor and his words
that mere fear of a whipping was not producing this humility; there was
a policeman on the corner.
"Don't talk so loud," urged Fogg. "Come up to my room where we can be
private."
Mayo hesitated, puzzled by his enemy's attitude.
"It's a word from the Old Man himself. He ordered me down here. It's
from Marston!" whispered the promoter. "I'm in a devil of a hole all
around, Mayo."
"Very well! I'll come. I can beat you up in your room more comfortably!"
"I'm not afraid of the beating! I wish that was all there was to it,"
muttered Fogg. He led the way into the hotel and Mayo followed, getting
a new grip on himself, conscious that there was some new crisis in his
affairs, scenting surrender of some sort in Fogg's astonishing humility.