"You go to hell!" he said. The next instant his eyes, strangely distended, saw curious vivid, whirling flashes of crimson and orange and violet. His tongue, curled fantastically, writhed outward like an ant eater's. His slender hands tore futilely at brutal, strangling fists clenched upon his throat. He was simultaneously sensible of dull thudding blows about the lower part of his body, judging hazily but quite correctly that Cullinan was kicking him. For a moment so, while the vivid colors faded and resolved themselves gradually into jetty black, and consciousness waned. Then he heard dimly a rush of feet, felt a swift relief as the stifling hands were torn from his throat. Gasping, he rolled weakly to one side while the shadows slowly lifted from his protruding eyes. They saw what brought Micky staggering to his feet with trembling interest. For the tables were turned, not by a relieving cordon of policemen, but by one man with vengeance in his hands. A splendid young figure, over six feet tall, he was in the center of the room, dealing it. A swift vision of yellow tousled hair, gleaming blue eyes and grim square jaw, flashed before Micky's bewildered sight. A distinct appreciation welled within him of the power behind a blow which at that instant knocked Mr. Cullinan into a corner, where he lay and shuddered. The newcomer now faced Mr. Mulligan, who, with malice burrowing in his gimlet eyes, at once fell into approved position. The rescuer laughed a great mellow, resounding laugh full into Mr. Mulligan's unlovely face. Then, dropping suddenly, he charged into the bartender in bruising gridiron style, a brawny shoulder heaving that gentleman in a disorganized heap near his annihilated partner. The athlete straightened with another booming laugh. "Come on, kid," he shouted, "it'll be warm here in a minute." He dragged the still dazed Micky out of the door. Up to the corner they ran to a cab in waiting. They sprang in. "Courier office!" directed the stranger, then drew out his watch. "You'll have plenty of time for your story," he observed. "I know Goldberg's, so when I happened around the office just now and Fatty told me, among other things, what was up, I didn't know as it would do any harm to drive over, seeing I'd nothing else to do. Makes a fellow feel restless to get out of the grind for a couple of weeks. You get rusty for exercise." He laughed again. Micky remembered his talk with Stearns. "You must be--" he ventured. "Dick Glenwood," returned the other, as they shook hands. "And you, I think I know you. Fatty told me, all in three minutes. You know he generally does." CHAPTER V THE IRONWORKERS' BALL--AND MAISIE