"Get out, will you?" snapped the manager, undertaking to slam the
door.

But Wharton was in a declamatory mood and went on, swingingly:
"The sky is faintly flushed with pink; Apollo in his chariot draws
nigh. The morning-glory closes with the sun, Bergman, and if a
fairy princess is late she will be shut out and forced to sleep on
the petals of a rose. My dear Nobel, don't spoil her beauty
sleep."

"I'm tired of your insolence. I'll--"

Bergman never finished his sentence, for in his rage he committed
a grave blunder--he struck wildly at the flushed face so close to
his, and the next instant was jerked bodily out of his seat.
Lorelei uttered a cry of fright, for the whole side of the cab
seemed to go with her employer.

There was a brief scuffle, a whirl of flying arms, then Bergman's
voice rose in a strangely muffled howl, followed by nasal curses.
With a bellow of anguish he suddenly ceased his struggles, and
Lorelei saw that Bob was holding him by the nose. It happened to
be a large, unhandsome, and fleshy member, and, securely grasping
it, Bergman's conqueror held him at a painful and humiliating
disadvantage.

Bob was panting, but he managed to say, "Come! We will run for the
lady--once around the block."

A muffled shriek of pain was the answer, but the street was empty