transformed him
from man to beast, the scorn, contempt and horror in Daisy's eyes, the
significance of the rigid little figure with tight-clenched hands, was
lost. Ferraringi had been in love with Daisy. Flannagan knew that,
and his seething brain remembered that. The circus people had told him
so; Daisy had told him so; Ferraringi had told him so with a snarl and
a threat--and he had laughed--_then_.

One instant Flannagan hung upon the threshold. He was not a pretty
sight. Back from a wreck, he was still in his overalls, and these were
smeared with blood--four carloads of steers had gone into premature
shambles in the ditch. One instant Flannagan hung there, his face
working convulsively--and then he jumped. His left hand locked into
the collar of the ringmaster's coat, his arm straightened like the
tautening chains of his own derrick crane, and, as the other came off
his knees and upright from the yank, Flannagan's right swung a terrific
full-arm smash that, landing a little above the jaw, plastered one side
of that tonsorial work of art, the waxed and curled mustache, flat into
Ferraringi's cheek.

Ferraringi's answer, as he wriggled free, was a torrent of
malediction--and a blinding flash. Daisy screamed. The shot missed,
but the powder singed Flannagan's face.

It was the only shot that Ferraringi fired! With a roar, high-pitched
like the maddened trumpeting of an elephant amuck, Flannagan with a
single blow sent the revolver sailing ceiling high--then his arms, like
steel piston rods, worked in and out, and his fists drummed an awful,
merciless tattoo upon the ringmaster.

The smoke from the shot filled the room with pungent odor. Chairs and
furniture, overturned, broken, crashed to the floor. Daisy, wild-eyed,
with parted lips, dumb with terror, crouched against the wall, her
hands clasped to her breast--but before Flannagan's eyes all was
red--_red_.

A battered, bruised, reeling, staggering form before him curled up
suddenly and slid in a heap at his feet. Flannagan, with groping hands
and twitching fingers, reached for it--and then, with a rush, other
forms, many of them, came between him and what was on the floor.

It was very good for Ferraringi, very good, for that was all that saved
him--Flannagan was seeing only red.

The neighbors lifted the stunned ringmaster, limp as rags, to his feet.
Flannagan brushed his great fist once across his eyes in a half-dazed
way, and glared at the ro