And so thoroughly did Reivers dominate the whole affair that Toppy, sitting carelessly on the edge of the table, was conscious of it, and knew that he, too, felt instinctively inclined to do as the men did—to look to Reivers for a sign before daring to speak or make a move. The Snow-Burner was in the saddle. It wasn’t natural, but every phase of the situation emanated from his master-man’s will. It was even his wish that Toppy should sit thus at his feet and look on, and his wish was gratified. But it was well that the visor of Toppy’s cap hid his eyes, else Reivers might have wondered at the look that flashed up at him from them. “Throw ’em in!” snapped Reivers, and the handlers thrust the three combatants, stripped to the waists but wearing calked lumberjack shoes, through the ropes. A cry went up to the sky from a hundred and fifty throats around the ringside—a cry that had close kinship with the joyous, merciless “Au-rr-ruh” of a wolf about to make its kill. Then an instant’s silence as the rudely handled fighters came to their feet and faced for action. Then another hideous yelp rent the still air; the fighters had come together! “Queer ring-costumes, eh, Treplin?” came Reivers’ voice mockingly. “Our own rules; the feet as well as the hands. Lord, what oxen!” The two Slavs had sprung upon their despoiler like two maddened cattle. Sheedy, rushing to meet them, head down, swung right and left overhand; and with a mighty smacking of hard fist on naked flesh, one Torta rolled on the ground while his brother stopped in his tracks, his arms pressed to his middle. The crowd bellowed. “Yes, I knew Sheedy had been a pug,” said Reivers judicially. Sheedy deliberately took aim and swung for the jaw of the man who had not gone down. The Slav instinctively ducked his head, and the blow, slashing along his jawbone, tore loose his ear. Half stunned, he dropped to his knees, and Sheedy stepped back to poise for a killing kick. But now the man who had been knocked down first was on his feet, and with the scream of a wounded animal he hurled himself through the air and went down, his arms close-locked around Sheedy’s right leg. Sheedy staggered. The ring became a little hell of distorted human speech. Sheedy bellowed horrible curses as he beat to a pulp the face that sought to bury itself in his thigh; his assailant screeched in Slavish terror; and the bull-like roar of his brother, rising to his feet with cleared senses and springing into the battle, intermingled with both. Sheedy’s red face went pale. Around the ringside the faces of the Slavs shone with relief. The fight was going their way; they roared encouragement and glee in their own guttural tongue. The others—Irish, Americans, Scandinavians—rooting for Sheedy only because he was of their breed, were silent.