rst out carolling--

"Ah Mia Maddalena."

Fairfax struck his face; the Italian sprang at him like a cat. Falutini
was as tall as Fairfax, more agile and with a hard head. However, with
one big blow, Fairfax sent him whirling, and as he struck and felt the
flesh and blood he discovered how glorious a thing a fight is, how nerve
relaxing, and he received the other's assault with a kind of ecstasy.
They were not unequally matched. Falutini's skin and muscles were like
toughened velvet; he was the cock of his village, a first-rate boxer;
and Tony's muscles were of iron, but Fairfax was mad and gloomy, and the
Italian was desperate and disgusted, and he made the better show.

A few men lounged in and one called out: "You darned cusses are due to
start in ten minutes."

Fairfax just then had his arm round the Italian's neck, the close
cropped head came under his chin, and as Fairfax panted and as he smelt
the garlic that at first had nauseated him in his companion, he was
about to lay his man when the same voice that called before, yelled in
horror--

"Look out, for God's sake, Fairfax, he's got a knife."

At the word, Fairfax gave a wrench, caught his companion's right hand
with his left and twisted the wrist, and before he knew how he had
accomplished it, he had flung the man and knife from him. The knife hit
Number Twenty-four and rattled and the fireman fell in a lump on the
ground. Fairfax stood over him.

"What a mean lout you are," he said in the jargon he had learned to
speak, "what a mean pup. Now you get up, Tito, and clear out."

The fellow rose with difficulty, white, trembling, punched a little
about the face, and breathing like a saw-mill. Some one handed the knife
to Fairfax.

"It never was made in America. It's a deadly weapon. Ugh, you onion!"

The Italian wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve and
spat out on the floor.

Fairfax felt better than he had felt for years. He went back to his
engine.

"Get up, Tito," he commanded his fireman; "you get in quickly or I'll
help you up. Give me the oil can, will you?" he said. And Tito,
trembling, his teeth dry between his lips, obeyed.

Fairfax extended his hand, meeting his companion's eyes for the first
time, and said frankly--

"My fault. No hard feeling, Tito. Bene benissimo."

He smiled and slapped the Italian on the back almost affectionately.
Tito saw that radiant light for the first time--the light smile. The old
gentlema