o’clock. Just a few minutes now.”
“All right. That’s all. I just wanted to speak to him about something.”
Stuart realized that Edna was standing beside the table; both men turned toward her.
“Say, girlie,” said the young man, “I want to talk to you. Sit down.”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can. The boss don’t mind.” He turned menacingly to Stuart. “She can sit down, can’t she?”
Stuart did not answer.
“I say she can sit down, can’t she?” said the young man more intently, and added, “Speak up, you little dummy.”
Still Stuart did not answer. Strange blood currents were flowing all over his body. He was frightened; anything said determinedly had a way of frightening him. But he could not move.
“Sh!” said the Greek to his companion.
But the younger man was angered.
“Say,” he broke out, “sometime somebody’s going to take a paste at you when you don’t answer what they say. Go on back to your desk!”
Still Stuart did not move.
“Go on away!” repeated the young man in a dangerous voice. “Hurry up! Run !”
Then Stuart ran. He ran as hard as he was able. But instead of running away from the young man he ran toward him, stretching out his hands as he came near in a sort of straight arm that brought his two palms, with all the force of his hundred and thirty pounds, against his victim’s face. With a crash of china the young man went over backward in his chair and, his head striking the edge of the next table, lay motionless on the floor.
The restaurant was in a small uproar. There was a terrified scream from Edna, an indignant protest from the Greek, and the customers arose with exclamations from their tables. Just at this moment the door opened and Mr. Cushmael came in.
“Why, you little fool!” cried Edna wrathfully. “What are you trying to do! Lose me my job?”
“What’s this?” demanded Mr. Cushmael, hurrying over. “What’s the idea?”
“Mr. Stuart pushed a customer in the face!” cried a waitress, taking Edna’s cue. “For no reason at all!”
The population of the restaurant had now gathered around the prostrate victim. He was doused thoroughly with water and a folded tablecloth was placed under his head.
“Oh, he did, did he?” shouted Mr. Cushmael in a terrible voice, seizing Stuart by the lapels of his coat.
“He’s raving crazy!” sobbed Edna. “He was in jail last night for pushing a lady in the face. He told me so himself!”
A large laborer reached over and grasped Stuart’s small trembling arm. Stuart gazed around dumbly. His mouth was quivering.
“Look what you done!” shouted Mr. Cushmael. “You like to kill a man.”
Stuart shivered violently. His mouth opened and he fought the air for a moment. Then he uttered a half-articulate sentence:
“Only meant to push him in the face.”
“Push him in the face?” ejaculated Cushmael in a frenzy. “So you got to be a pusher-in-the-face, eh? Well, we’ll push your face right into jail!”
“I—I couldn’t help it,” gasped Stuart. “Sometimes I can’t help it.” His voice rose unevenly. “I guess I’m a dangerous man and you better take me and lock me up!” He turned wildly to Cushmael, “I’d push you in the face if he’d let go my arm. Yes, I would! I’d push you—right-in-the-face !”
For a moment an astonished silence fell, broken by the voice of one of the waitresses who had been groping under the table.
“Some stuff dropped out of this fella’s back pocket when he tipped over,” she explained, getting to her feet. “It’s—why, it’s a revolver and——”
She had been about to say handkerchief, but as she looked at what she was holding her mouth fell open and she dropped the thing quickly on the table. It was a small black mask about the size of her hand.
Simultaneously the Greek, who had been shifting uneasily upon his feet ever since the accident, seemed to remember an important engagement that had slipped his mind. He dashed suddenly around the table and made for the front door, but it opened just at that moment to admit several customers who, at the cry of “Stop him!” obligingly spread out their arms. Barred in that direction, he jumped an overturned chair, vaulted over the delicatessen counter, and set out for the kitchen, collapsing precipitately in the firm grasp of the chef in the doorway.
“Hold him! Hold him!” screamed Mr. Cushmael, realizing the turn of the situation. “They’re after my cash drawer!”
Willing hands assisted the Greek over the counter, where he stood panting and gasping under two dozen excited eyes.
“After my money, hey?” shouted the proprietor, shaking his fist under the captive’s nose.
The stout man nodded, panting.
“We’d of got it too!” he gasped, “if it hadn’t been for that little pusher-in-the-face.”
Two dozen eyes looked around eagerly. The little pusher-in-the-face had disappeared.
The beggar on the corner had just decided to tip the policeman and shut up shop for the night when he suddenly felt a small, somewhat excited hand fall on his shoulder.
“Help a poor man get a place to sleep—” he was beginning automatically when he recognized the little cashier from the restaurant. “Hello, brother,” he added, leering up at him and changing his tone.
“You know what?” cried the little cashier in a strangely ominous tone. “I’m going to push you in the face!”
“What do you mean?” snarled the beggar. “Why, you Ga——”
He got no farther. The little man seemed to run at him suddenly, holding out his hands, and there was a sharp, smacking sound as the beggar came in contact with the sidewalk.
“You’re a fakir!” shouted Charles Stuart wildly. “I gave you a dollar when I first came here, before I found out you had ten times as much as I had. And you never gave it back!”
A stout, faintly intoxicated gentleman who was strutting expansively along the other sidewalk had seen the incident and came running benevolently across the street.
“What does this mean!” he exclaimed in a hearty, shocked voice. “Why, poor fellow—” He turned indignant eyes on Charles Stuart and knelt unsteadily to raise the beggar.
The beggar stopped cursing and assumed a piteous whine.
“I’m a poor man, Cap’n—”
“This is—this
