but he lowered the gun perceptibly. "Every little skunk like you is
yella--yella as the devil--"

But Pat did not finish his sentence, for Billy, with a blaze in his
eyes like the lamps of a tiger, and a fierce young cat-like leap flew
at the flabby creature, wrenched the gun out of his astonished hand,
and before he could make any outcry held it tantalizingly in his face.
Billy had never had any experience before with bullies and bandits
except in his dreams; but he had played football, and tackled every
team in the Valley, and he had no fear of anything. Moreover he had
spent long hours boxing and wrestling with Mark Carter, and he was hard
as nails and wiry as a cat. The fat one was completely in his hands. Of
course those other two down across the tracks might have made trouble
if Pat had cried out, but they were too far away to see or hear the
silent scuffle on the platform. But Billy was taking no chances.

"Now, keep on yer shirt, Pat, and don't make no outcry. My friends can
get here's easy as yours, so just take it quiet. All you gotta do is
take that remark back you just uttered. I ain't yella, and you gotta
say so. Then you hand over those fifteen bones, and I'm yer man."

It was incredible that Pat should have succumbed, but he did. Perhaps
he was none too sure of his friends in the bushes. Certainly the time
was getting short and he was in a hurry to get to his job on the
Highway. Also he had no mind for being discovered or interrupted. At
any rate with a hoarse little laugh of pretended courage he put his
hand in his baggy pocket and pulled out the bills.

"You win, Kid," he admitted, "I guess you're all white. Anything to
please the baby and get down to biz. Now, sonny, put that gun away, it