A waiter attacked Peter from behind. It took Peter a few seconds to wiggle round, get the heel of his hand under the waiter's chin, and jolt him down to where, falling backward on his heels all the while, he hit solidly with the back of his head between the plump shoulders of the fat one of the singing ladies who was fervidly warbling: "Mem-moh-reez--mem-moh-reez!" to an elderly male with a proud smile on his face. A little cloud of powder flew into the air above the singer; an ejaculation of shocked surprise from her lips. Peter felt sorry, but didn't see how he could help her just then. It was Henston Peter wanted, and all the waiters tugging from behind warn't going to stop him. He reached across the table and took a good hold and hauled. It was like hauling a two-hundred-pound halibut over the gunnel of a dory, only he had nothing against any halibut that ever he hauled into a dory. He braced and heaved, and Henston came out of his corner and over the table, and kept on coming till he was clear over the table behind Peter and flat into the aisle beyond. "You'll have to excuse me," said Peter to the diners at that table--all men; but they spoke right up, three of them, to say hurriedly: "It's all right; it's all right." And the other, as if to himself: "And they're scourin' the country for White Hopes!" "Stop him, some of you, before he smashes the place up!" roared a frantic man who came running up then; and two, four, six waiters piled onto Peter, who, having no quarrel with them, gently shoved them off and went over to get Sarah. A pugnacious-looking, prematurely gray-haired man stood at the café door as they were passing out. Peter was wondering if he would have to fight him, too. The man's face--it was the cafe bouncer--broke into a sudden grin. "You're all right," he said. "I been watchin' that fuhler an' his crowd. An' you leave it to the manager to stick the damages onto him. You're all right, and that young lady--you take it from me, young fuhler--she's all right, too." Sarah felt grateful to the bouncer for that tribute. She hoped that it would bring a smile to Peter's face. But all the way home in the trolley there was no smile from Peter; he clung grimly to his strap and stared straight at the advertising cards. At her door he only spoke to say "Good night." "Good night, Peter." And then, with a little clutch at his sleeve: "You're not mad with me, Peter?" "I'm mad with myself for makin' the show o' you that I did to-night; but when he said you'd drunk wine with him there--said it with a bunch o' people like himself listenin'--when he said that----" Sarah's curling little hand had been reaching out for his. It came back flat to her side again. "I got a bad temper, Sarah. It don't come out often, but it's there. And to-night, Sarah, when he lied about you like that, and his crowd, and maybe others round, believin' him maybe----"