Bradley, without ceremony, pushed into the crowd, and the foreigners made way for him the best they could. Then he commenced to shoulder through the sort of self-constituted guard of sympathizers with the house. One of these tried to block his way more effectually. "You'd better keep your hands off, whoever you are," the man threw at him. "The young fool's been putting the place on the rough ever since he came in here. All Dave wants to do is put him out of the back door, and----" "Thash the boy, Reddy! Don't lesh him bluff you--saw him change cards m'self. Damn thief--damn cheat--thash the boy, Reddy!" It was old John MacQuigan's voice, from the other room, high-pitched, clutter-tongued, drunken. Then a voice, cold, with a sneer, and a ring in the sneer that there was no mistaking--Faro Dave's voice: "You make a move, and I'll drop you quicker'n----" Bradley's arms swept out with a quick, fierce movement, hurling the man who tried to block him out of the way; and, fighting now, ramming with body and shoulders, throwing those in front of him to right and left, he half fell, half flung himself finally through the doorway into the room beyond--too late. "Thash the boy, Reddy!"--it was old John's maudlin voice again. "Thash the----" The picture seared itself into Bradley's brain, lightning-quick, instantaneous, but vivid in every detail, as he ran: The little group of men, three or four, who had been sitting at the game probably, seeking cover in the far corner; Reddy MacQuigan, swaying a little, standing before a somewhat flimsy green-baized card table; old John, too far gone to stand upright alone, leaning against the wall behind Reddy; Faro Dave, an ugly white in his face, an uglier revolver in his hand, standing, facing Reddy across the table; the quick forward lunge from Reddy, the crash of the table as the boy hurled it to the floor and flung himself toward the gambler; the roar of a revolver shot, the flash of the short-tongued flame; a choking scream; another shot, the tinkle of glass as the bullet shattered the ceiling lamp; then blackness--all but a dull glow filtering in through the barroom door, that for the first instant in the sudden contrast gave no light at all. Bradley, before he could recover himself, pitched over a tangled mass of wrecked tables--over that and a man's body. Somebody ran through the room, and the back door slammed. There were shouts now, and yells--a chorus of them from the barroom. Some one bawled for a light. Bradley got to his knees, and, reaching to raise the boy, wounded or killed as he believed, found his throat suddenly caught in a vicious grasp--and Reddy's snarling laugh was in his ears. "Let go!" Bradley choked. "Let go, Reddy. It's me--Martin." Reddy's hands fell. "Martin, eh?" he said thickly. "Thought it was--hic--that----"