The cowpuncher turned on him with an abrupt question. "Can you swim?" The eyes of the ward boss narrowed. "What's that to you?" he demanded truculently. "Nothin' to me, but a good deal to you. I'm aimin' to drop you in the river when we cross." "Is that so?" snarled Durand. "You're quite a joker, ain't you? Well, you can't start somethin' too soon to suit me. But let's get this clear so we'll know where we're at. What's ailin' you, rube?" "I don't like the color of yore hair or the cut of yore clothes," drawled Lindsay. "You've got a sure-enough bad eye, and I'm tired of travelin' in yore company. Let's get off, me or you one." In the slitted eyes of the Bowery graduate there was no heat at all. They were bleak as a heavy winter morn. "Suits me fine. You'll not travel with me much farther. Here's where you beat the place." The professional lashed out suddenly with his left. But Clay was not at the receiving end of the blow. Always quick as chain lightning, he had ducked and clinched. His steel-muscled arms tightened about the waist of the other. A short-arm jolt to the cheek he disregarded. Before Durand had set himself to meet the plunge he found himself flying through space. The gambler caught at the rail, missed it, landed on the cinders beside the roadbed, was flung instantly from his feet, and rolled over and over down an incline to a muddy gully. Clay, hanging to the brass railing, leaned out and looked back. Durand had staggered to his feet, plastered with mud from head to knees, and was shaking furiously a fist at him. The face of the man was venomous with rage. The cowpuncher waved a debonair hand and mounted the steps again. The porter was standing in the vestibule looking at him with amazement. "You throwed a man off'n this train, mistah," he charged. "So I did," admitted Clay, and to save his life he could not keep from smiling. The porter sputtered. This beat anything in his previous experience. "But--but--it ain't allowed to open up the cah. Was you-all havin' trouble?" "No trouble a-tall. He bet me a cigar I couldn't put him off." Clay palmed a dollar and handed it to the porter as he passed into the car. The eyes of that outraged official rolled after him. The book of rules did not say anything about wrestling-matches in the vestibule. Besides, it happened that Durand had called him down sharply not an hour before. He decided to brush off his passengers and forget what he had seen. Clay stopped in front of Kitty and said he hoped she would have no trouble making her transfer in the city. The girl was no fool. She had sensed the antagonism that had flared up between them in that moment when they had faced each other five minutes before. "Where's Mr. Durand?" she asked. "He got off." "But the train hasn't stopped." "It's just crawlin' along, and he was in a hurry."