Intent upon the effect of his words, he dropped his guard. With lightning swiftness Bruce feinted, slapped his adversary squarely across the mouth and followed with a cracking blow on the jaw that sent him toppling over the bench. His fall made considerable noise, and the superintendent of the club came running in to learn the cause of the disturbance. Walters, quickly on his feet, was now struggling to shake off his friend. Several other men coming in stopped in the aisle and began chaffing Walters, thinking that he and Bruce were engaged in a playful scuffle. Walters, furious that his friend wouldn’t release him, began cursing loudly. “Gentlemen, this won’t do!” the superintendent admonished. “We can’t have this here!” “Mr. Walters,” said Bruce when Walters had been forced to sit down, “if you take my advice you’ll be much more careful of your speech. If you want my address you’ll find it in the office!” He went back to Shep, who sat huddled on the bench by his locker, his face in his hands. He got up at once and they finished dressing in silence. Walters made no further sign, though he could be heard blustering to his companion while the superintendent hovered about to preserve the peace. Shep’s limousine was waiting--he made a point of delivering Bruce wherever he might be going after their meetings at the club--and he got into it and sat silent until his house was reached. He hadn’t uttered a word; the life seemed to have gone out of him. Bruce walked with him to the door and said “Good night, Shep,” as though nothing had happened. Shep rallied sufficiently to repeat the good-night, choking and stammering upon it. Bruce returned to the machine and bade the chauffeur take him home. He did no work that night. Viewed from any angle, the episode was disagreeable. Walters would continue to talk--no doubt with increased viciousness. Bruce wasn’t sorry he had struck him, but as he thought it over he found that the only satisfaction he derived from the episode was a sense that it was for Shep that he had taken Walters to task. Poor Shep! Bruce wished that he did not so constantly think of Shep in commiserative phrases.... Bud Henderson, who was in the club when the row occurred, informed Bruce that the men who had been in the locker room were good fellows and that the story was not likely to spread. It was a pity, though, in Bud’s view, that the thing had to be smothered, for Walters had been entitled to a licking for some time and the occurrence would make Bruce the most popular man in town. “If the poor boob had known how you used to train with that middle-weight champ in Boston during our bright college years he wouldn’t have slapped you! I’ll bet his jaw’s sore!” Bruce was not consoled. He wished the world would behave itself; and in particular he wished that he was not so constantly, so inevitably, as it seemed, put into the position of aiding and defending the house of Mills. CHAPTER NINETEEN I