"Hoong!" observed that gentleman, starting up and caressing his cheek.

"Wake up, Mac. Here's a man from the Trouble Belt, with samples to
show."

The individual thus addressed slowly rose out of his chair, exhibiting a
squat, gnarly figure surmounted by a very large head.

Hal's hand came up out of his pocket, with the dog-whip writhing
unpleasantly after it. Simultaneously, the ex-sleeper projected himself,
without any particular violence but with astonishing quickness, between
the caller and his prey. Without at all knowing whence it was derived,
Hal became aware of a large, black, knobby stick, which it were
inadequate to call a cane, in his new opponent's grasp.

Of physical courage there was no lack in the scion of the Surtaine line.
Neither, however, was he wholly destitute of reasoning powers and
caution. The figure before him was of an unquestionable athleticism; the
weapon of obvious weight and fiber. The situation was embarrassing.

"Please don't lick the editor," said the interrupter of poetic justice
good-humoredly. "Appropriately framed and hung upon the wall, fifteen
cents apiece. Yah-ah-ah-oo!" he yawned prodigiously. "Calm down," he
added.

Hal stared at the squat and agile figure. "You're the office bully and
bouncer, I suppose," he said.

"McGuire Ellis, _at_ your service. Bounce only when compelled. Otherwise