The two peacemakers were perspiring and in despair.
One of them blurted out—
“Well, I’ll be blamed if this ain’t
the most ridiculous thing I ever saw.”
The other said—“For ten dollars I’d
be tempted to let these two infernal blockheads have
their duel.”
Patsy was strutting to and fro, and conferring grandly
with his friends.
“He took me for a muff. He t’ought
he was goin’ t’ bluff me out, talkin’
’bout swords. He’ll get fooled.”
He addressed the Cuban—“You’re
a fine little dirty picter of a scrapper, ain’t
che? I’ll chew yez up, dat’s what
I will!”
There began then some rapid action. The patience
of well-dressed men is not an eternal thing.
It began to look as if it would at last be a fight
with six corners to it. The faces of the men were
shining red with anger. They jostled each other
defiantly, and almost every one blazed out at three
or four of the others. The bartender had given
up protesting. He swore for a time and banged
his glasses. Then he jumped the bar and ran out
of the saloon, cursing sullenly.
When he came back with a policeman, Patsy and the
Cuban were preparing to depart together. Patsy
was delivering his last oration—
“I’ll fight yer wid swords! Sure
I will! Come ahead, Dago! I’ll fight
yeh anywheres wid anyt’ing! We’ll
have a large, juicy scrap, an’ don’t yeh
forgit dat! I’m right wid yez. I ain’t
no muff! I scrap with a man jest as soon as he
ses scrap, an’ if yeh wanta scrap, I’m
yer kitten. Understan’ dat?”
The policeman said sharply—“Come,
now; what’s all this?” He had a distinctly
business air.
The little Cuban stepped forward calmly. “It
is none of your business.”
The policeman flushed to his ears. “What?”
One well-dressed man touched the other on the sleeve.
“Here’s the time to skip,” he whispered.
They halted a block away from the saloon and watched
the policeman pull the Cuban through the door.
There was a minute of scuffle on the sidewalk, and
into this deserted street at midnight fifty people
appeared at once as if from the sky to watch it.
At last the three Cherry Hill men came from the saloon,
and swaggered with all their old valor toward the
peacemakers.
“Ah,” said Patsy to them, “he was
so hot talkin’ about this duel business, but
I would a-given ‘im a great scrap, an’
don’t yeh forgit it.”
For Patsy was not as wise as seven owls, but his courage
could throw a shadow as long as the steeple of a cathedral.
The yellow gaslight that came with an effect of difficulty
through the dust-stained windows on either side of
the door gave strange hues to the faces and forms
of the three women who stood gabbling in the hallway
of the tenement. They made rapid gestures, and
in the background their enormous shadows mingled in
terrific conflict.
