"That's what I wanted to be sure of. Hey, you, Byrne!

You're nearest the companionway--fetch the girl."

At the command the mucker turned and leaped up the

stairway to the upper deck. Billy Mallory had overheard the

conversation below and Simms' command to Byrne. Disengaging

himself from Barbara Harding who in her terror had

clutched his arm, he ran forward to the head of the stairway.

The men of the Lotus looked on in mute and helpless rage.

All were covered by the guns of the boarding party--the still

forms of two of their companions bearing eloquent witness to

the slenderness of provocation necessary to tighten the trigger

fingers of the beasts standing guard over them.

Billy Byrne never hesitated in his rush for the upper deck.

The sight of the man awaiting him above but whetted his

appetite for battle. The trim flannels, the white shoes, the natty

cap, were to the mucker as sufficient cause for justifiable

homicide as is an orange ribbon in certain portions of the

West Side of Chicago on St. Patrick's Day. As were "Remember

the Alamo," and "Remember the Maine" to the fighting

men of the days that they were live things so were the habiliments

of gentility to Billy Byrne at all times.

Billy Mallory was an older man than the mucker--twenty-four

perhaps--and fully as large. For four years he had

played right guard on a great eastern team, and for three he

had pulled stroke upon the crew. During the two years since

his graduation he had prided himself upon the maintenance of

the physical supremacy that had made the name of Mallory

<<BackPagesTo menuNext>>