Rex stooped quickly and disengaged the fellow’s hand with no gentle touch.  In doing so he looked him straight in the face.  It was Ashby Stout.

“Great Scott, it’s little Pell,” exclaimed Stout.  Then he added quickly:  “Look here, youngster, what right have you to send that girl away from here?”

“A brother’s right,” replied Rex promptly.

“Whew!” whistled Stout under his breath, and he turned to Driscoll, the friend with whom he had come in.  “Say, Sammy,” he whispered, “what position does this chap hold in the place?”

“He’s the manager’s son,” was the reply.

Having accomplished his purpose Rex went on, took up his tray and carried it into the pantry.  His eyes still flashed from anger.

“Jess,” he said, going up to his sister, “you must not go into that dining room again.”

“But I’ll have to,” she replied, “I’ve got lots of orders to fill.”

“Never mind.  I’ll attend to yours and mine, too.  I’m not going to have that ruffian ogling you, I know who he is.”

“You do?  Who is he?”

“Never mind.  It is enough that I know everything bad about him and nothing good.  Give me your orders.”

And Jess complied.  Of course this compelled Rex to wait on Stout.  But he gritted his teeth and went through with the process in dignified silence, taking no notice of the attempt Stout made to draw him into conversation.

When dinner was over and Rex was back in his place behind the desk, making up accounts, Stout strolled in, a cigarette between his lips.

He affected to be examining the register for a little while, then suddenly looked up to remark:  “I say, Pell, that’s a deuced pretty sister of yours.”

I won’t say that Rex did right, I can’t say that he did wrong, but on the instant and without a word he leaned forward and hit J. Ashby Stout a blow on the chin that sent him staggering backward over a chair that stood just behind him.

There happened to be no one else in the office just at that moment.  So Mr. Stout was obliged to pick himself up, which he did, muttering wrathfully under his breath, while Rex, very white, went on with his work.

“If you’re not a coward, sir, you’ll come out here and give me satisfaction for that insult, sir.”

So spoke Mr. Stout.  Rex closed his books and came out in front of the desk.

“I allow no one to speak of my sister in that tone,” he said.

“And I allow no one to strike me,” blustered Mr. Stout, launching out a blow directly at Rex’s face.

Rex dodged and planted another blow on Mr. Stout’s chin.  Then they both went at it.  Sometimes one was struck, sometimes the other.  I am aware that this is contrary to all precedents in story writing.  Following out these, J. Ashby Stout should have gone down under the first blow, and then been glad to slink off without risking another encounter with the redoubtable hero.