and, at the man's change of expression, "I'm not hungry."
There came a laugh from the group behind. "Told you so," said the man who had offered Denton the loan of an oil can. "He's top side, he is. You ain't good enough for 'im."
The swart face grew a shade darker.
"Here," said its owner, still extending the bread, and speaking in a lower tone; "you got to eat this. See?"
Denton looked into the threatening face before him, and odd little currents of energy seemed to be running through his limbs and body.
"I don't want it," he said, trying a pleasant smile that twitched and failed.
The thickset man advanced his face, and the bread became a physical threat in his hand. Denton's mind rushed together to the one problem of his antagonist's eyes.
"Eat it," said the swart man.
There came a pause, and then they both moved quickly. The cube of bread described a complicated path, a curve that would have ended in Denton's face; and then his fist hit the wrist of the hand that gripped it, and it flew upward, and out of the conflict—its part played.
