"Come on, you flannel-mouths!" Bert yelled at the newcomers,
himself swept away by passion, his black eyes flashing wildly,
his dark face inflamed by the too-ready blood. "Come on, you
cheap skates! Talk about Gettysburg. We'll show you all the
Americans ain't dead yet!"

"Shut your trap--we don't want a scrap with the girls here,"
Billy growled harshly, holding his position in front of the
table. He turned to the three rescuers, who were bewildered by
the lack of anything visible to rescue. "Go on, sports. We don't
want a row. You're in wrong. They ain't nothin' doin' in the
fight line. We don't wanta fight--d'ye get me?"

They still hesitated, and Billy might have succeeded in avoiding
trouble had not the man who had gone down the bank chosen that
unfortunate moment to reappear, crawling groggily on hands and
knees and showing a bleeding face. Again Bert reached him and
sent him downslope, and the other three, with wild yells, sprang
in on Billy, who punched, shifted position, ducked and punched,
and shifted again ere he struck the third time. His blows were
clean end hard, scientifically delivered, with the weight of his
body behind.

Saxon, looking on, saw his eyes and learned more about him. She
was frightened, but clear-seeing, and she was startled by the
disappearance of all depth of light and shadow in his eyes. They
showed surface only--a hard, bright surface, almost glazed,
devoid of all expression save deadly seriousness. Bert's eyes
showed madness. The eyes of the Irishmen were angry and serious,
and yet not all serious. There was a wayward gleam in them, as if