There was no time to find a weapon, and he carried none, but he was handy with his feet, and a well-directed kick not only lamed Davis’s elbow for a week, but knocked the knife from his hand half-way across the room. It would have been between Long Mike’s ribs but for the kick. Disarmed and disabled, the desperado was no match for the two men, one of whom was grappling him from beneath while the other was continuing to kick from above. At this moment the pistol went off and Gallagher fell to the floor. Flynn had got possession of the weapon, but it had been discharged in the transfer and Gallagher’s head was directly in line. Having it, however, Flynn used it promptly and stunned Harrison with a single blow, practically ending the shindy, for Long Mike made short work of Davis when he realized the situation. “Is he kilt?” he inquired, anxiously, as Flynn and McCarthy bent over Gallagher. “Sure he saved my life when this blackguard was shtickin’ me like a pig.” “I think he is,” said McCarthy. “There’s a hole in his head the size of a shtove door.” But the bullet had glanced, and Gallagher was only stunned. Sitting up a moment later he said: “Will ye’s all get out o’ my house? I have confidential affairs to discuss wid Misthress Gallagher.” “We will,” said the three friends, as they departed, dragging the gamblers with them. Then the other door opened. “Is it you, Pat?” said a female voice. “It is,” said Gallagher, “an’ I’d like my supper. But first ye’ll give me a bit o’ a wet rag till I wipe my head.” VII GALLAGHER STRIPPED “Sure I do be thinkin’ it’s like playin’ lotthery,” said Stumpy, as he sat one day in meditative mood near the steamboat-landing with Deaf Dan. It was a hot afternoon and there had been a long, sociable silence between them when Stumpy yawned and shot off his comparison. It was uttered in stentorian tones, for none could converse otherwise with Deaf Dan. “As bein’ how?” inquired Deaf Dan. “Who’s a lotthery?” “All of us,” said Stumpy. “Iv’ry marnin’ we do put in, loike the suckers that buys thim little printed bits o’ paper wid a big number on ’em, an’ lies. An’ thin we set around, like bumps on a log, waitin’ for to see what the drawin’ ’ll be, the same as thim same suckers does. Mostly it’s blanks. Sildom it is that anythin’ happens in Brownsville. But now an’ again, some wan’ll dhraw a proize. Maybe it’s a chanst at th’ red liquor, an’ maybe it’s a shindy, an’ sometimes it’s a game of dhraw-poker, but annyhow it’s a proize, such as it may be.” “It’s right y’ are,” said Deaf Dan. “An’ lately it’s all blanks. Sure, there’s nothin’ do be doin’ in th’ place since the night that Gallagher got back.” “Sure, that was a fine foight,” said Stumpy. “They tell me that same,” responded Deaf Dan, “but Gallagher an’--Howly mother o’ Moses, phwat’s that?”