The bartender had given up
protesting. He swore for a time and banged his glasses. Then he jumped
the bar and ran out of the saloon, cursing sullenly.
When he came back with a policeman, Patsy and the Cuban were preparing
to depart together. Patsy was delivering his last oration--
"I'll fight yer wid swords! Sure I will! Come ahead, Dago! I'll fight
yeh anywheres wid anyt'ing! We'll have a large, juicy scrap, an' don't
yeh forgit dat! I'm right wid yez. I ain't no muff! I scrap with a man
jest as soon as he ses scrap, an' if yeh wanta scrap, I'm yer kitten.
Understan' dat?"
The policeman said sharply--"Come, now; what's all this?" He had a
distinctly business air.
The little Cuban stepped forward calmly. "It is none of your business."
The policeman flushed to his ears. "What?"
One well-dressed man touched the other on the sleeve. "Here's the time
to skip," he whispered. They halted a block away from the saloon and
watched the policeman pull the Cuban through the door. There was a
minute of scuffle on the sidewalk, and into this deserted street at
midnight fifty people appeared at once as if from the sky to watch it.
At last the three Cherry Hill men came from the saloon, and swaggered
with all their old valor toward the peacemakers.
"Ah," said Patsy to them, "he was so hot talkin' about this duel
business, but I would a-given 'im a great scrap, an' don't yeh forgit
it.
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