ed
himself almost instantly. There was no longer any look of boyishness in
the drawn fare, with the chin thrust forward belligerently, the brows
drawn low, the eyes blazing.

"The way I fight!" he repeated challengingly, menacingly.

Schmidt, having restored the handkerchief to its pocket, took up the
accusation.

"Yes," he declared, with surly spitefulness. "I have been in a dozen
strikes, and this is the first time any employer ever attacked me in my
affections--through my Frieda." The German's narrow eyes were alight
with venomous resentment, as he glowered at Hamilton.

Astounded by this attack, Hamilton forgot rage in stark bewilderment.

"What on earth do you--can you--mean?" he stormed.

"It is not right," was the stolid asseveration of the German. "The home
is sacred." The speaker's tone was so malevolent that Hamilton was
impressed, in spite of himself. And then, suddenly, a suspicion upreared
itself in his brain--a suspicion so monstrous, so absurd, so baseless,
so extravagantly impossible, that he would have laughed aloud, but for
the sincerity of the feeling manifested in the faces of the men before
him. His eyes roved from Schmidt to the faded woman who was the man's
wife. He saw her shrinking behind the ample bulk of Mrs. McMahon, her
mouth opening and closing soundlessly, as if in a wordless soliloquy.
Then, again, his eyes returned to the man who had just uttered the
preposterous accusation, and he beheld the usually jocund face
distorted by a spasm of jealous fury, the insensate fury of the male in
the loathed presence of a rival. No, here was no room for laughter.
However ludicrous the mistake in its essence, its fruits were too
serious for mirth. He turned his gaze on McMahon, and saw there the like
virile detestation of himself. He ventured a glance toward the Amazon,
who loomed over-buxom and stalwart. Again, he was tempted to amusement;
but, again, a look toward the husband checked any inclination toward
lightness of mood. Finally, he regarded Ferguson, and there, too, he
beheld a passionate reproach. He did not trouble to stare at the girl.
He remembered perfectly her cheap prettiness, her mincing manner, her
flamboyant smartness of apparel from Grand Street emporiums of fashion.
The strain of a false situation gripped him evilly, so that for the
moment he faltered before it, uncertain as to his course. Denial, he
felt, must be almost hopeless, since how could men capable of such crude
stup