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Selected Stories of Bret Harte by Bret Harte
page 138 of 413 (33%)
felt this, and, with his pent-up, nervous energy finding expression in
the one act, he struck the brute full in his grinning face. The blow
sent the glazed hat one way and the cue another, and tore the glove
and skin from the master's hand from knuckle to joint. It opened up
the corners of the fellow's mouth, and spoilt the peculiar shape of his
beard for some time to come.

There was a shout, an imprecation, a scuffle, and the trampling of many
feet. Then the crowd parted right and left, and two sharp quick reports
followed each other in rapid succession. Then they closed again about
his opponent, and the master was standing alone. He remembered picking
bits of burning wadding from his coat sleeve with his left hand. Someone
was holding his other hand. Looking at it, he saw it was still bleeding
from the blow, but his fingers were clenched around the handle of a
glittering knife. He could not remember when or how he got it.

The man who was holding his hand was Mr. Morpher. He hurried the master
to the door, but the master held back, and tried to tell him as well
as he could with his parched throat about "Mliss." "It's all right,
my boy," said Mr. Morpher. "She's home!" And they passed out into the
street together. As they walked along Mr. Morpher said that Mliss had
come running into the house a few moments before, and had dragged him
out, saying that somebody was trying to kill the master at the Arcade.
Wishing to be alone, the master promised Mr. Morpher that he would not
seek the agent again that night, and parted from him, taking the road
toward the schoolhouse. He was surprised in nearing it to find the door
open--still more surprised to find Mliss sitting there.

The master's nature, as I have hinted before, had, like most sensitive
organizations, a selfish basis. The brutal taunt thrown out by his late
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