"It means," said Joe grimly, "that one of you men is in for the licking of his life. Don't tremble so, Fleming," he added contemptuously. "I've already thrashed you once and I don't care to soil my hands with you again. But I've been aching for months to get my fingers on the man that made me out a liar and a contract-breaker. I have him now," he added, with a steely glance at Braxton. "Here, Jim," he continued, stepping back, "take this flash. I've got some work to do." With a quick wrench he tore off his coat. "You'd better be careful," said Braxton--no longer the suave and polished trickster, but pale as chalk and trembling like a leaf. "This is assault and battery, and you'll answer to the law." "Put up your hands," said Joe curtly. "You're as big a man as I am, but you've got to prove which is the better one. And you, Jim, keep your eye on Fleming and stand by to see fair play." Even a rat will fight when cornered and Braxton, seeing no alternative, threw off his coat and made a desperate rush at Joe. Joe met him with a clip to the jaw that shook him from head to foot. Then he sailed in and gave the scoundrel what he had promised--the thrashing of his life. Braxton tried foul tactics, butted and kicked and tried to gouge and bite, but Joe's powerful arms worked like windmills, his fists ripping savagely into Braxton's face and chest. All the pent-up indignation and humiliation of the last few weeks found vent in those mighty blows, and soon, too soon to suit Joe, the man lay on the floor, whining and half-sobbing with shame and pain. "Get up, you cur!" said Joe, as he pulled on his coat. "I'm not through with you yet." "You're not going to hit him again, are you?" asked Fleming, while Braxton staggered painfully to his feet. "No," said Joe. "I guess he's had enough." "You said it!" cried Jim admiringly. "If ever a man was trimmed to the queen's taste he's that man." "But I'm going to nail, right now, the lies you fellows have been spreading," continued Joe, eyes alight with the thought of his coming vindication. "You've got to sign a written confession of the part you've played in this dirty business." "We w-will, w-when we get back to town," stammered Fleming. "No, you won't," cried Joe. "You'll do it right here and now." "B-but we haven't any writing materials," suggested Braxton, through his swollen lips. "I've got paper and a fountain pen!" exclaimed Jim eagerly. "This light is rather dim, but probably Mike has got the automobile lamps going by this time and that'll be light enough." "Come along!" cried Joe sternly, and his crest-fallen opponents knew him too well by this time to resist. They went out into the open and found that the rain had almost stopped. As Jim had prophesied, the automobile lamps were gleaming through the dusk. Like every Irishman, Mike dearly loved a scrap, and his eyes lighted with a mixture of eagerness and regret as he looked at Braxton and realized what he had been missing.