TO the right, at the rear end of the long, black hallway that connected the area with the street on the north, was a good-sized room which had once been used by a job printer—as proven by the rubbish in it: strips of wood, quantities of old type, torn paper, and ragged, inky cloths. The room had a pair of large windows looking out upon the brick pavement; but as these windows were smeared and dust-sprinkled, the place offered privacy. And Barber, leading the way down from his own flat, did not halt until he stood in the center of it.

"I'm not goin' t' have no cop stop this fight," he declared grimly.

Mr. Perkins, entering, shut the door at his back. "Neither am I," he answered quietly.

There was a moment's pause, as the two men, separated by several feet, gazed at each other. Physically, the contrast between them was horrific. Slight, neat, dapper, showing even no ill-temper, Mr. Perkins seemed but a poor match for Barber, whose appearance was more gorillalike than usual (hair disheveled, heavy shoulders humped, teeth grinding savagely under puffed and bristling lips, huge hands at the ends of long, curving arms, spreading and closing with the desire to clutch and rend). Yet Big Tom was plainly not so cocksure of himself as he had been, while the scoutmaster wore an air of complete confidence.

Suddenly, muttering a curse, the longshoreman lurched forward and reached for the younger man. In the same instant, Mr. Perkins clenched his own fists and held them before him on guard. But also he advanced, though elusively, slipping to one side of those great paws. As he side stepped, with a duck of the head he gathered himself together, snapped forward, and landed a jab square upon Barber's right eye.

"Ow-oo!" It was a bellow, mingling surprise with rage and pain. Involuntarily, the longshoreman fell back a pace, and lifted a hand to his face. As he did so, with another down-jerk of the chin, and another leap, once more the scoutmaster rammed him—upon the left eye. And followed this up with a lightning stroke on that big, twisted nose.

At this, Big Tom made a rush. So far, the fight was not of the kind he had waged with One-Eye—a rough-and-tumble affair in which brute strength and weight counted in his favor. But pounds, combined with lack of training, slowness, and awkwardness, put him at a sad disadvantage when facing this smaller, lighter man who had speed, and science, and was accustomed to bouts. Since Barber could not change his own method of fighting, he understood that he must change the tactics of his adversary; must grab the scoutmaster, bear him to the floor, and beat him. This he determined to do. Wildly he churned the air with those knuckles of steel.

"If I git my hands on y'," he stormed, "I'll tear y' in two!" The taste of his own blood was in his mouth now, for a warm stream of it was spreading from his nostrils to his lips and chin.

"You won't get your hands on me," promised Mr. Perkins. He dodged nimbly from side to side as the longshoreman came on, and kept just beyond the latter's grasp. Watching his chance, he darted in and landed a fourth blow—under an eye; then got away again, carefully preserving himself against being struck while doing the greatest amount of damage possible to the enemy.

All the time he watched to see that he was not cornered. A moment, and the junction of two walls came over close to his back; so under one of those flesh-and-blood flails he slipped; and, coming up behind Big Tom, struck the latter a whanging blow on an ear. "You're going to spank me, are you?" he taunted. "Well, come on and do it! Come on!"

More maddened than ever, and swearing horribly, the longshoreman whirled and started a second pursuit. He blew the blood from his lips, the better to breathe, spattering the scarlet countenance of Mr. Perkins with scores of dots which were a deeper red. And as he blew, he cut the air with his arms, hitting nothing.

"Why don't y' stand up and fight!" he raged. "Stop that jumpin' 'round!"

"Oh, you want to wrestle, don't you!" mocked Mr. Perkins. "But this time you've got to box!"

"Y' won't git ev'rything y'r own way!" vowed Big Tom, panting curses, and still whirling his arms like the fans of a windmill.

Changing his steps like a dancer, the scoutmaster fell back. But now he was at a disadvantage, for his face was toward those windows, and the light was in his eyes. As he flitted and shied, tiring Barber and shortening the big man's wind, he watched his chance to bolt under and by as before. Foot on foot the space between him and the rear wall of the room lessened. He sprang, now right, now left, on the alert for his opening. It came. He shot forward——

A staggering clout from a heavy hand hurled him against a side wall like a battering-ram. The breath was driven out of his lungs. Dizzily he plunged forward to his hands and knees among the dÉbris on the floor.

"Ha-a-a-a-a!" It was a shout of triumph from the longshoreman.

But that wallop, hard as it was, had been delivered accidentally. And as Barber, whose eyes were now swelling from the scoutmaster's initial blows, scarcely knew where his opponent was, he failed to seize Mr. Perkins, who was up like a cat, and on, and facing round.

"Now I'll git y'!" cried Barber. As he, in turn, faced about, he began to kick out furiously, now with one foot, now with the other.

Each moment was passing in painful anxiety to the group in the Barber flat. Mrs. Kukor made one of that group, having teetered in directly Big Tom and Mr. Perkins were gone. Now her hat was off and her apron on; with the latter she constantly fanned a face which, its color sped, was a sickly shade of tan. All the while she murmured strange words under her breath, only breaking out every now and then with an "Ach! poor poy! Poor poy!" As she did not look at either Johnnie or One-Eye, it was evident that she had Mr. Perkins in mind.

As for Father Pat, he complained about himself. "If I only had me lungs!" he mourned. To and fro he walked, to and fro. "If only I could do annything except talk! Dear! dear! dear! dear!"

The cowboy, blinder than ever, comforted himself with praising the absent scoutmaster. "That young feller's O. K.," he asserted. "I can tell it by the way he grabbed my paw. Yas, ma'am! I liked the way he shook hands. He'll come out better'n me. Watch if I ain't right! I ain't worryin'!"—this though the sweat of concern was even then dampening his countenance!

Johnnie, listening and watching, curled himself farther and farther into his quilt, and feebly groaned. He was seeing, seeing, seeing, and what he saw was agonizing. "Oh, Mister Perkins'll be licked!" he faltered. "Oh, I wish I could've went along. But I'm weak! Oh, Father Pat, the next time I git licked, I'll keep it t' myself!"

"Oh, don't be silly!" admonished Cis, apprehensive, but calm, being buoyed up by hope based upon solid information. "Didn't I tell you, Johnnie, to 'wait till Mr. Perkins finds out'? Well, we waited, tied to the table like two thieves, or something. And Mr. Perkins has found out, and he's giving Tom Barber a sound thrashing! So I'm not worrying!"

"I can see y' ain't," declared One-Eye, admiringly. He was back at the sink once more, allowing Niagara to lave that injured eye, now a shining purplish-black. "Bully fer the gal! That's the stuff! Y' got backbone! And spirit, by thunder! And sand! Jes' paste that in yer sunbonnet! But, Cis, w'y don't y' skedaddle right now? Go whilst the goin's good! Gosh, I'm 'feard that some one's likely t' git hurt pretty bad, and it won't be Barber! So whoever it is will need t' be nursed."

"Oy! oy! oy! oy!" lamented Mrs. Kukor.

"I'll nurse him!" cried Johnnie, hardly able to keep back the tears. "I'll go with him, and take care of him, and cook for him."

"Don't you understand, Johnnie? I'm going with him! I'm to be Mrs. Perkins! And—I'll be right here when Algy comes in."

"But—but—!" whispered Johnnie. What he was thinking made allowance for no such charming event as a wedding; rather for the same sort of doleful procession he had pictured before, only now Big Tom was in the carriage with him, while poor Mr. Perkins——!

One-Eye had something of the sort in his own mind, for as he forsook the sink, Mrs. Kukor leading him, he shook a rumpled head at her. "Barber's bigger'n a barn!" he observed grimly.

"Pos-i-tivvle!"

Cis laughed, tossing her head. "I don't care how big he is," she declared, "or how mad! Algy can take care of himself."

Looking at her, Johnnie felt both pity and disgust—pity for the grief she would undoubtedly suffer soon, disgust for her girl's lack of understanding. Was not the young, boyish, slender scoutmaster fighting this very moment for his life, and that with a steel-constructed giant? "Aw, jus' look at One-Eye!" he counseled argumentatively, and groaned again.

"Wait for Algy," returned Cis, crossing to slip an affectionate arm about Mrs. Kukor's shoulders. "And don't fret. Because Algy's the amateur light-heavyweight champion of his club, and it's an athletic club, and——!"

"What-a-a-at?" roared Father Pat. "He's the—he's the—oh, say it again!"

But even as Cis opened her lips to speak, swift steps were heard on the stairs outside. She knew them. She rushed to the door and flung it wide. And the next moment, fairly bouncing in, and looking as pink-faced, and white-spatted, and dapper as ever, was none other than Mr. Perkins.

The dude had whipped his man.