“Yes,” went on the Fighter, “I s’pose in _your_ gold-shirt world, folks would say I was all kinds of a cad to keep on punishin’ that swine after I’d bowled him off his legs. But them same folks will jump with both feet on a business man when there’s a rumor that he’s broke. They’ll join in a run on a bank that’s in trouble. Their saintly women’ll take pious joy in chasin’ to hell some poor girl who’s made a fool of herself. But they’d roll up their eyes at the sight of me lickin’ Blacarda after he’s keeled over. What’n blazes is the use of gettin’ a man down if you ain’t goin’ to hit him? It’s the A. B. C. of business. Why, Caine, you make me tired!” His eyes fell on his own torn, bleeding knuckles. He gazed at them in slow surprise; then sauntered over to bathe them. The glass above the washstand revealed to him a face pasty white, smeared with coal-dust smears and blood, and swollen from a blow on the mouth. “I’m an engagin’ lookin’ spectacle, all right,” he soliloquized as he bent to wash. “Lucky I left my suit case at the _ho_tel this morning. I’ll need a lot of dressin’ and massagin’ before I can go to see Dey.” Blacarda groaned feebly, and moved his head. “He’s coming around,” reported Caine. “Now I’m goin’ to telephone down for the hotel doctor. While he’s on his way here you can think of some story to tell him that will account for Blacarda’s condition.” “I’ll tell him the truth,” said Caleb, simply. “All except the part about Dey. An’ I guess Blacarda ain’t likely to tell _that_, either. But what’s the use of a doctor? The cur’s gettin’ his senses back.” “I think you fractured at least one of his ribs, when your knee was jammed down on his chest,” answered Caine. “It feels so to me. Besides, unless his face is to be distorted and hideous for life it must have medical care at once.” Blacarda lifted his unrecognizable visage and opened the one eye which was not wholly hidden from view by his swollen flesh. Caine raised the injured man to a sitting posture and held a whiskey flask to the torn, discolored lips. Through the hedge of smashed teeth and down the swelled throat the stinging liquor glided. Blacarda gulped it down, sat motionless for a moment, then groaned again and looked about him. “Well,” growled Caleb, “do you want any more?” One long second Blacarda squinted vacantly at his conqueror. Then, with a shuddering scream of terror, he buried his mangled face in Caine’s shoulder and lay there, quivering and sobbing. “What a beast you are, Conover!” exclaimed Caine, in revolt. “That’s right,” assented Caleb, cheerfully. “But I’ve just broke a worse one. Broke him body an’ spirit. Not such a bad day’s work!” CHAPTER VIII CALEB CONOVER STORMS A RAMPART