"This." The big fellow flashed at him, and dropped the bung-starter heavily behind his ear. Coffey crumpled upon the floor. The sluggers hesitated half a second, then piled on Ed so quickly that Jack didn't dare use his gun. Instead, he ran around the bar and twisted his arm under the chin of blackshirt, pulling him away from the heap. He thrust him up in the air, using his own knee for a lever, then dropped him heavily on his back on the floor and kicked his head. There was no time for niceties. Meanwhile, Jim had taken futile hold of another slugger's foot, who easily shook him off. He was cautiously planning for another hold--very cautiously indeed, not being anxious to become too completely immersed in the proceedings, when all at once the place became full of people. Strong and willing arms eagerly and quickly unraveled the tangle. "This is a hell of a game for eight o'clock in the evenin'." It was the bass voice of public peace. "Oh!" concernedly, "is it you, Mr. Miles? Are you hurted?" The big fellow felt his shaven skull where, in the melee, a brass knuckle had struck him a glancing blow. He looked at his red fingers. "Just a scrape, Sarje, not cracked," he laughed. "What's the charge?" asked the detective sergeant, solicitously. "Tell 'em the facts," enjoined the big fellow. "Well," began the efficient bartender, "Mr. Miles and me was talking quietly together here; he was standing just there with his back to the door, and I heard an awful yelling going up and down in the street. I knew it was Coffey Neal, hunting trouble, and drunk. They come in the cigar stand, swearing and cursing, saying they were looking for Ed Miles--to cut his heart out. But Ed says to me he didn't want any trouble in the place, so's he'd walk out, and he started out the side door, when Coffey and this blackshirt fellow come running in and threw that bowl of cheese at him--see it there--and jumped him. Then these other bad actors began kicking him, too, and I went in to separate 'em--and I guess that's all. Lucky you came in or there might have been trouble." "What charge will I put agin 'em?" "Drunk and disorderly; assault; assault and battery; assault with intent to kill; unprovoked assault; mayhem; assault with a deadly weapon--and I guess they ain't got no visible means of support," suggested the big fellow. "Oh! yes, and conspiracy." "Let it go at that," said Jack. The sergeant wrote it down. The sluggers were silent. The case had become one for lawyers' fees. Their own talking couldn't do any good. "Any witnesses?" asked the sergeant. "Me," said Jim. "It was the way Jack says." "Put 'em in the wagon," commanded law and order. Coffey Neal was picking up his threads again at the place he had dropped them. "And what if we won't drink with you, Ed Miles!" he muttered, somewhat scattered. "Likely the Bridewell, Coffey," laughed the big fellow. The vanquished were escorted out into the night.