From where I
stood, at a distance of six or eight yards, the impact of the Sheeney's
fist on The Young Pole's jaw and cheeks was disconcertingly audible. The
latter made not the slightest attempt to defend himself, let alone
retaliate; he merely skidded about, roaring and clutching desperately out
of harm's way his long white scarf, of which (as I have mentioned) he was
extremely proud. But for the sheer brutality of the scene it would have
been highly ludicrous. The Sheeney was swinging like a windmill and
hammering like a blacksmith. His ugly head lowered, the chin protruding,
lips drawn back in a snarl, teeth sticking forth like a gorilla's, he
banged and smote that moon-shaped physiognomy as if his life depended
upon utterly annihilating it. And annihilate it he doubtless would have,
but for the prompt (not to say punctual) heroism of The June Bride--who,
lowering his huge gun, made a rush for the fight; stopped at a safe
distance; and began squeaking at the very top and even summit of his
faint girlish voice:
"_Aux armes! Aux armes!_"
which plaintive and intrepid utterance by virtue of its very fragility
penetrated the building and released The Black Holster, who bounded
through the gate, roaring a salutation as he bounded, and in a jiffy had
cuffed the participants apart.
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