perfectly still. The object shifted a few inches; Mr. Espalin
perceived from the tail of his eye the large, unfeeling muzzle of a
sixshooter; beyond it, a glimpse of the forgotten elderly stranger,
Mr. Pringle.

Only Mr. Pringle's fighting face appeared, and that but for a moment;
he laid a finger to lip and crouched, hidden by the partition and by
Espalin's body. Mr. Espalin gathered that Pringle desired no outcry
and shunned observation; he sat motionless accordingly; he felt a hand
at his belt, which removed his gun.

"Happy days!" said Foy, and raised his glass to his lips.

Creagan seized the uplifted wrist with both hands, Applegate pounced
on the other arm. Pringle leaped through the doorway. But something
happened swifter than Pringle's swift rush. Foy's knee shot up to
Applegate's stomach. Applegate fell, sprawling. Foy hurled himself on
Creagan and bore him crashing to the floor. Foy whirled over; he rose
on one hand and knee, gun drawn, visibly annoyed; also considerably
astonished at the unexpected advent of Mr. Pringle. Applegate lay
groaning on the floor. Pringle kicked his gun from the holster and set
foot upon it; one of his own guns covered the bartender and the other
kept watch on Espalin, silent on his still-tilted chair.

"Who're you!" challenged Foy.

"Friend with the countersign. Don't shoot! Don't shoot me, anyhow."

Foy rose from hand and knee to knee and foot. This rescuer, so
opportunely arrived from nowhere, seemed to be an ally. But to avoid