lping mouthful of air, exhaled it, and laughed a deepchested,
satisfied laugh, for all he was staggering like a drunken man. Here
Michael's wife Katya came puffing out of her house like a traction
engine--such was the shape in which nature formed her--and falling on
her knees, caught his hand to her vast bosom, weeping like the
overflowing of a river and blubbering uncouth sounds.

"Get up, you crazy woman!" snarled John Flint, his face going
brick-red. "Stop licking my hand, and get up!" Although he did not
know it, Katya symbolized the mental attitude of every laborer in
Appleboro toward him from that hour.

"Here's Doctor Westmoreland! And here comes the po-lice!" yelled a
boy, joyous with excitement.

Westmoreland cast one by no means sympathetic glance at the wreck on
the ground, and his big arms went about John Flint; his fingers flew
over him like an apprehensive father's.

"What's all this? Who's been fighting here, you people?" demanded the
town marshal's brisk voice. "Big Jan? And--good Lord! _Mister Flint!_"
His eyes bulged. He looked from Big Jan on the ground to the Butterfly
Man under Westmoreland's hands, with an almost ludicrous astonishment.

"I'm sure sorry, Mr. Flint, if I have to give you a little trouble for
awhile, but--"

"But you'll be considerably sorrier if you do it," said Dr. Walter
Westmoreland savagely. "You take that hulk over there to the jail,
until I have time to see him. I can't have him sent home to his wife
in that shape. And look here, Marshal: Jan got exactly what he
deserved; it's been coming to him this long time. If Inglesby's bunch
tries to take a hand in this, _I'll_ try to make Appleboro too hot to
hold somebody. Understand?"

The marshal was a wise enough man, and he understood. Inglesby's pet
foreman had been all but killed, and Inglesby would be furiously
angry. But--Mr. Flint had done it, and behind Mr. Flint were powers
perhaps as potent as Inglesby's. One thing more may have influenced
the marshal: The hitherto timid and apathetic people had merged into a
compact and ominous ring around the Butterfly Man and the doctor. A
shrill murmur arose, like the wind in the trees presaging a storm.
There would be riot in staid Appleboro if one were so foolish as to
lay a detaining hand upon John Flint this day. More yet, the beloved
Westmoreland himself would probably begin it. Never had the marshal
seen Westmoreland look so big and so raging.

"All right, Doctor," said