Рекс Стаут - Her Forbidden Knight

The All-Story, August 1913 to December 1913

“Young man,” said Tom Dougherty, “that’ll do. Remove yourself.”

“What do you mean?” said the person addressed, pugnaciously.

Dougherty regarded him with stern disfavor.

“You know what I mean. Go over and talk to Venus at the cigar stand. But as for that” — he nodded toward the telegraph desk, where sat Lila Williams, the operator, her face reddened by the impertinent gaze of the young man — “nothing doing. Stay away, and far away.”

“Private, eh?” the young man grinned.

Dougherty’s face became sterner still.

“You say one more word,” he said calmly, “and I’ll punch your face. Now clear out.”

At this threat the young man raised his brows in a sort of pained surprise.

“I say,” he protested, “that isn’t necessary. When you talk about punching my face you offend my sensibilities. I regard it as impolite. Nevertheless, I’m a good fellow, and I’ll be glad to seek fresh pastures on your assurance that the little brunette yonder, who is somewhat of a peach, belongs to you. If she does, I wish to congratulate you on having—”

But the voluble young man’s oration met with a sudden and effectual interruption. Staggered, but not floored, by the scientific blow that Dougherty planted on his jaw, he fell a step or two backward, involuntarily raising his hands to a posture of defense. Then, as his face colored with anger, he recovered himself and glared at Dougherty with an almost joyous hostility.

“In that case,” he said calmly, “where shall we go?”

“To the billiard room,” said Dougherty in a pleased tone. There was something to this young fellow, after all, he thought.

The affair was not without its audience. A half-dozen loungers who had observed the clash in the lobby followed on their heels, and the attendant and one or two players looked up curiously as they entered the billiard room.

In the lobby the Venus at the cigar stand, otherwise known as Miss Hughes, stretched her neck to an unbelievable length in an effort to look round two corners at once, and Lila Williams, the innocent cause of the battle, trembled in her chair and covered her face with her hands.

Dougherty soon discovered that there was, indeed, “something to this young fellow.” No sooner had he squared off and assumed his favorite guard — for Dougherty had at one time been a prizefighter — than he suddenly felt himself in the midst of a mad, breathless whirlwind.

A thousand arms and fists seemed to be revolving crazily about his head and shoulders. This was bewildering.

And what was worse, sometimes they landed. Nothing more unscientific could possibly be imagined; Dougherty felt aggrieved. This was no man, but a windmill.

Dougherty struck out blindly with both arms, then suddenly felt himself propelled backward by some jolting force, while he clutched frantically at a table to save himself from falling.

He opened his eyes. Before him stood the young man, smiling pleasantly; on either side a knot of lobby loungers, on their faces an expression of amused surprise.

“This is where Tom gets his,” observed Billy Sherman.

At this remark Dougherty’s strength returned. He leaped at his opponent fiercely and by the mere force of impact bore him to the floor; then, as they both rose, he landed a free swing on the young man’s ear.

But the windmill proved too much for him. A succession of jolts on the nose and mouth rattled and unnerved him; his hands waved wildly in the air; and when, after a feeling of delicious repose and a succeeding blackness, he found himself lying flat on his back on the floor, he decided to remain there.

“How about it, old man?” came a voice.

Dougherty opened his eyes and smiled weakly.

“Hello, Dumain! Oh, all right. Only he don’t know how to fight. Does he think he’s a semaphore? What was it he hit me with?”

Dumain stooped down, placed his hands under Dougherty’s shoulders and helped him to his feet. One or two of the others approached and offered assistance, but Dougherty shook them off with a gesture.

“Here, brace up,” said Dumain. “What was zee quarrel?”

“Woman, lovely woman,” chirped Harry Jennings.

“Shut up,” growled Dougherty. “It was Miss Williams,” he added, turning to Dumain. “The puppy insulted her.”

“My dear fellow,” came a voice, “how can you call me that after what has just happened? Do you require additional demonstration?”

Dougherty turned and glared at his late opponent.

“No, thanks,” he said dryly. “You’ve already proved you’re one. Just because I’ve lost my wind is no sign you’re a man. And anybody who insults Miss Lila Williams is a puppy, and remains so till he apologizes.”

“You are, I take it, the young lady’s champion,” the young man observed.

“Call it anything you like. But I’m her friend,” said Dougherty.

“And I,” said Dumain.

“And I,” came in a chorus from the loungers, who had remained to support Dougherty.

The young man whistled expressively.

“So many! She is a lucky woman. And surely she could use one more.”

“Zee next time,” Dumain observed significantly, “there will be five of us, or seex. I imagine you will have rather a lively time of it. And be good enough to refrain from remarks such as zee one you have just made. They displease us.”

“But what the deuce!” the young man exclaimed.

Then he hesitated and appeared to consider.

“Now, listen here,” he continued finally; “you can’t frighten me. I’d take you all on in a minute. But I’m a good fellow. I would rather walk on my own feet than somebody else’s toes.

“As far as your Miss Williams is concerned, I’m interested in her. But if you chaps have any reason, philosophical, domestic, or amatory, which might cause me to smother my inclinations, I’m willing to hear it. I put it up to you.”

“Indeed!” said Dumain contemptuously. “And who are you?”

“Let him alone,” said Dougherty. “I like him. Moreover, I’ll talk to him.

The young man smiled.

“My name is Driscoll — Bub Driscoll,” he said, holding out his hand to Dougherty.

“Tom Dougherty,” said that gentleman, taking the hand.

They found chairs in a corner of the billiard room, and Dougherty began his tale. Some of the others gathered round — for Dougherty’s tongue was famous — and divided their attention between the narration and a game of billiards begun by Harry Jennings and Billy Sherman.

Driscoll, during the readjustment, found opportunity for the first time to take note of his surroundings.

Filled with stale tobacco smoke, poorly ventilated, and receiving constantly the heterogeneous fumes from the bar adjoining, the most noticeable thing about the room was the odor which pervaded it. To an ordinary human being this atmosphere is vitiating: but the sport and the tenderloin loafer thrive and grow fat on it. They breathe it as the salamander does the flame.