Dave, an ugly white in his face, an uglier revolver in his
hand, standing, facing Reddy across the table; the quick forward lunge
from Reddy, the crash of the table as the boy hurled it to the floor
and flung himself toward the gambler; the roar of a revolver shot, the
flash of the short-tongued flame; a choking scream; another shot, the
tinkle of glass as the bullet shattered the ceiling lamp; then
blackness--all but a dull glow filtering in through the barroom door,
that for the first instant in the sudden contrast gave no light at all.

Bradley, before he could recover himself, pitched over a tangled mass
of wrecked tables--over that and a man's body. Somebody ran through
the room, and the back door slammed. There were shouts now, and
yells--a chorus of them from the barroom. Some one bawled for a light.

Bradley got to his knees, and, reaching to raise the boy, wounded or
killed as he believed, found his throat suddenly caught in a vicious
grasp--and Reddy's snarling laugh was in his ears.

"Let go!" Bradley choked. "Let go, Reddy. It's me--Martin."

Reddy's hands fell.

"Martin, eh?" he said thickly. "Thought it was--hic--that----"

Reddy's voice sort of trailed off. They were bringing lamps into the
room now, holding them up high to get a comprehensive view of
things--and the light fell on the farther wall. Reddy was staring at
it, his eyes slowly dilating, his jaw beginning to hang weakly.

Bradley glanced over his shoulder. Old John, as though he had slid
down the wall, as though his feet had slipped out from under him, sat
on the floor, legs straight out in front of him, shoulders against the
wall and sagged a little to one side, a sort of ironic jeer on the
blotched features, a little red stream trickling down from his right
temple--dead.

Not a pretty sight? No--perhaps not. But old John never was a pretty
sight. He'd gone out the way he'd lived--that's all.

It was Martin Bradley who reached him first, and the crowd hung back
while he bent over the other, hung back and made way for Reddy, who
came unsteadily across the room--not from drink now, the boy's
gait--the drink was out of him--he was weak. There was horror in the
young wiper's eyes, and a white, awful misery in his face.

A silence fell. Not a man spoke. They looked from father to son. The
room was filling up now--but they came on tiptoe. Gamblers, most of
them, and pretty rough, pretty hard cases, and life held light--bu