ill on the run--and brought up at a
dead halt against a solidly packed mass of humanity; Polacks and Swedes
and Hungarians from the construction gangs; a scattering of railroad
men in the rear; and more than a sprinkling of the harder element
gathered from all over town, the hangers-on, the sharpers, and the card
men, the leeches, the ilk of Faro Dave who ran the place, and who
seemed to be intent on maintaining a blockade at the far end of the
barroom.

The place was jammed, everybody craning their necks toward the door of
the back room, where Faro Dave ran his stud, faro and roulette layouts;
and from there, over the shuffling feet of the crowding men in the bar,
came a snarl of voices--amongst them, Reddy's, screaming out in drunken
fury, incoherently.

Bradley, without ceremony, pushed into the crowd, and the foreigners
made way for him the best they could. Then he commenced to shoulder
through the sort of self-constituted guard of sympathizers with the
house. One of these tried to block his way more effectually.

"You'd better keep your hands off, whoever you are," the man threw at
him. "The young fool's been putting the place on the rough ever since
he came in here. All Dave wants to do is put him out of the back door,
and----"

"Thash the boy, Reddy! Don't lesh him bluff you--saw him change cards
m'self. Damn thief--damn cheat--thash the boy, Reddy!" It was old
John MacQuigan's voice, from the other room, high-pitched,
clutter-tongued, drunken.

Then a voice, cold, with a sneer, and a ring in the sneer that there
was no mistaking--Faro Dave's voice:

"You make a move, and I'll drop you quicker'n----"

Bradley's arms swept out with a quick, fierce movement, hurling the man
who tried to block him out of the way; and, fighting now, ramming with
body and shoulders, throwing those in front of him to right and left,
he half fell, half flung himself finally through the doorway into the
room beyond--too late.

"Thash the boy, Reddy!"--it was old John's maudlin voice again. "Thash
the----"

The picture seared itself into Bradley's brain, lightning-quick,
instantaneous, but vivid in every detail, as he ran: The little group
of men, three or four, who had been sitting at the game probably,
seeking cover in the far corner; Reddy MacQuigan, swaying a little,
standing before a somewhat flimsy green-baized card table; old John,
too far gone to stand upright alone, leaning against the wall behind
Reddy; Faro