"Cigars!" he ordered. "Bring a box of Carolinas."
"Yes, sir. Are you Mr. Locke, sir?" inquired the new waiter.
"Yes," said Kirk.
"Telephone message for you, Mr. Locke," the waiter muttered.
"What's that?" Anthony queried, loud enough for the others to
hear.
"Somebody calling you by 'phone. They're holding the wire outside.
I'll show you the booth."
"Oh, will you?" Kirk Anthony's hands suddenly shot out and seized
the masquerader by the throat. The man uttered a startled gasp,
but simultaneously the iron grip of Marty Ringold fell upon his
arms and doubled them behind him, while Kirk gibed:
"You'll get me outside and into a telephone booth, eh? My dear
sir, that is old stuff."
The rest of the party were on their feet instantly, watching the
struggle and crowding forward with angry exclamations. Ringold,
with the man's two wrists locked securely in his own huge paw, was
growling:
"Smooth way to do up a fellow, I call it."
"All the way from St. Louis for a telephone call, eh?" Anthony
sank his thumbs into the stranger's throat, then, as the man's
face grew black and his contortions diminished, added: "We're
going to make a good waiter out of you."
Jefferson Locke broke in excitedly: "Choke him good! Choke him!
That's right.
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