e probably would
never refer to it again--just understand. Yes; he was glad he had told
her. He hadn't intended to, of course. It had come almost
spontaneously, almost as though for some reason it was _meant_ that he
should tell her, and----

Bradley's eyes fixed on a small boy's figure that came suddenly
streaking across the road and flung itself at the MacQuigans' little
front gate; then the gate swung, and the boy came rushing up the yard.
Bradley thought he recognized the figure as one of the call boys, and a
call boy running like that was always and ever a harbinger of trouble.
Instinctively he glanced back into the room. Mrs. MacQuigan was out in
the kitchen. Bradley stepped quickly into the hall, and reached the
front door as the boy began to pound a tattoo with his fists on the
panels.

Bradley jerked the door open.

"What's wrong?" he demanded tersely.

The light from the hall was on the boy now--and his eyes were popping.

"Say," he panted, in a scared way, "say, one of Reddy's friends sent
me. There's a wild row on at Faro Dave's. Reddy's raisin' the roof,
an'----"

Bradley's hand closed over the youngster's mouth. In answer to the
knock, Mrs. MacQuigan was hurrying down the hall.

"What's the matter, Martin?" she questioned nervously, looking from
Bradley to the boy and back again to Bradley.

"Nothing," said Bradley reassuringly. "I'm wanted down at the
roundhouse to go out with a special." He gave the boy a significant
push gatewards. "Go on, bub," he said. "I'll be right along."

Bradley went back into the house, picked up his cap, and, with a cheery
good-night to Mrs. MacQuigan, started out again. He walked briskly to
the gate and along past the picket fence--Mrs. MacQuigan had the shade
drawn back, and was watching him from the window--and then, hidden by
the Coussirats' cottage next door, he broke into a run.

It wasn't far--distances weren't great in Big Cloud in those days,
aren't now, for that matter--and in less than two minutes Bradley had
Faro Dave's "El Dorado" in sight down Main Street--and his face set
hard. He wasn't the only one that was running; men were racing from
every direction; some coming up the street; others, he passed, who
shouted at him, and to whom he paid no attention. In a subconscious
way he counted a dozen figures dart in through the swinging doors of
the "El Dorado" from the street--news of a row travels fast.

Bradley burst through the doors, st