Beth Norvell

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."