There was a dull noise of a heavily struck blow. A pair of short legs,
waving frantically, traversed a complete semicircle, coming down with a
crash at the edge of the bushes. Through a rapidly swelling and badly
damaged optic the pessimistic O'Brien gazed up in dazed bewilderment at
the man already astride of his prostrate body. It was a regenerated
Norseman, the fierce battle-lust of the Vikings glowing in his blue
eyes. With fingers like steel claws he gripped the Irishman's shirt
collar, driving his head back against the earth with every mad
utterance.
"Ay ban Nels Swanson!" he exploded defiantly. "Ay ban Nels Swanson!
Ay ban Nels Swanson! Ay ban shovel-man by Meester Burke! Ay ban
Lutheran! Ay ban work two tollar saxty cint! You hear dose tings?
Tamn the Irish--Ay show you!"
With the swift, noiseless motion of a bird Mercedes flitted across the
narrow space, forcing her slender figure in between the two
contestants, her white teeth gleaming merrily, the bright sunshine
shimmering across her black hair. Like two stars her great eyes
flashed up imploringly into the Swede's angry face.
"No, no, señors! You no fight like de dogs vid me here. I not like
dat, I not let you. See! you strike him, you strike me. Dios de
Dios! I not have eet so--nevah."
A strong, compelling hand fell suddenly on Winston's shoulder, and he
glanced about into the grave, boyish countenance of Stutter Brown.
"Th-thar 's quite c-c-consid'able of a c-crowd comin' up the t-t-trail
t-ter the 'Independence,' an' B-Bill wants yer," he announced, his calm
eyes on the controversy being waged beyond in the open. "Th-thar 'll
be somethin' d-doin' presently, but I r-reckon I better s-s-straighten
out t-this yere i-i-international fracas first."