shoulder.
“Hey!” said the sergeant in a loud voice.
Harrigan turned slowly and the sergeant’s hand fell away. The man of the carnation was far in the background.
“Well?”
“That flower. You can’t get away with little tricks like that. You better be starting on. Move along.”
Harrigan glanced slowly from face to face. The three policemen drew closer together as if for mutual protection.
“Please—honey!” urged the whisper of the girl.
The hand of Harrigan resting on the window sill had gathered to a hard-bunched fist, white at the knuckles, but he nodded across the open space between the cottages.
“If you’re looking for work,” he said, “seems as though you’d find a handful over there.”
A clatter of sharp, quick voices rose from a group of Negro soldiers gathering around a white man. No one could tell the cause of the quarrel. It might have been anything from an oath to a blow.
“Watch him,” said Harrigan. “He looks like a man.” He added plaintively: “But looks are deceivin’.”
The center of the disturbance appeared to be a man indeed. He was even taller than Harrigan and broader of shoulder, and, like the latter, there was a suggestion of strength in him which could not be defined by his size alone. At the distance they could guess his smile as he faced the clamoring mob.
“Break in there!” ordered the sergeant to his companions, and started toward the angry circle.
As he spoke, they heard one of the Negroes curse and the fist of the tall man darted at the face of a soldier and drove him toppling back among his comrades. They closed on the white man with a yell; a passing group of their compatriots joined the affray; the whole mass surged in around the tall fellow. Harrigan’s head went back and his eyes half closed like a critic listening to an exquisite symphony.
“Ah-h!” he whispered to himself. “Watch him fight!”
The policemen struck the outer edge of the circle with drawn clubs, but there they stopped. They could not dent that compacted mass. The soldiers struggled manfully, but they were held at bay. Harrigan could see the heaving shoulders of the defender over the heads of the assailants, and the crack of hard-driven fists. The attackers were crushed together and had little room to swing their arms with full force, while the big man stood with his back against the wall of the cottage and made every smashing punch count.
As if by common assent, the soldiers suddenly desisted and gave back from this deadly fighter. His bellow of triumph rang over the clamor. His hat was off; his long black hair stood straight up in the wind; and he leaped after them with flailing arms.
But now the police had managed to pry their way into the mass by dint of indiscriminate battering. As the black-haired man came face to face with the sergeant, the light gleamed on a high-swung club that thudded home; and the big man dropped out of sight. He came up again almost at once, but with men draped from every portion of his body. The soldiers and police had joined forces, and once more a dozen men clutched him, spilling over him like football players in a scrimmage. He was knocked from his feet by the impact.
“Coming!” shouted Harrigan.
He raced with long strides, head lowered and back bowed until his long arms nearly swept the ground. Gathering impetus at every stride, he crushed into the floundering heap of arms and legs. The police sergeant rose and whirled with lifted club. Harrigan grunted with joy as he dug his left into the man’s midsection. The sergeant collapsed upon the ground, embracing his stomach with both arms. Harrigan jerked away the upper layers of the attackers and dragged the black-haired man to his feet.
“Shoulder to shoulder!” thundered Harrigan, and smote Officer Akana upon the point of the chin.
The victory was not yet won. The black soldiers of Uncle Sam’s regular army need not take second place to any body of troops in the world. These men had tasted their own blood and they came tearing in now for revenge.
Harrigan, standing full in front of the rescued man until the latter should have recovered his breath, found food for both fists, and his love of battle was fed. The other man had fought stiffly erect, standing with feet braced to give the weight of his whole body to every punch; Harrigan raged back and forth like a panther, avoiding blows by the catlike agility of his movements, which left both hands free to strike sledge-hammer blows. Presently he heard a chuckling at his side. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the black-haired man come into the battle, straight and stiff as before, with long arms shooting out like pistons.
It was a glorious sight. Something made Harrigan’s heart big; rose and swelled his throat; rose again and came as a wild yell upon his tongue. The unfortunates who have faced Irish legions in battle know that yell. The soldiers did not know it, and they held back for a moment. Something else lowered their spirits still more. It was the clanging of the police patrol as it swung to a halt and a body of reserves poured out.
“Here comes our finish!” panted Harrigan to his comrade in arms. “But oh, man, I’m thinkin’ it was swate while it lasted!”
In his great moments the Irish brogue thronged thick upon his tongue.
“Finish, hell!” grunted the other. “After me, lad!”
And lowering his head like a bull, he drove forward against the crowd. Harrigan caught the idea in a flash. He put his shoulder to the hip of his friend. They became a flying wedge with the jabbing fists of the black-haired man for a point—and they sank into the mass of soldiers like a hot knife into butter, shearing them apart.
There were few who wished more action, for the police reserves were capturing man after man. One or two resisted, but a revolver fired straight in the air put a sudden period to such thoughts. The crowd scattered in all directions and Harrigan was taking to his heels among the rest when an iron hand caught his shoulder and jerked him to a halt. It was the black-haired man.
“Easy,” he cautioned. He pulled a cap out and settled it upon his head. Harrigan followed suit with his soft hat.
“Are you after givin’ yourself away to the law?” he queried, bewildered.
“Steady, you fool,” said the other; “they’re only after the ones who run away.”
An excited Kanaka confronted them with brandished club.
“What’s the cause of the disturbance, officer?” asked the big man.
The policeman for answer waved them away and darted after a running soldier.
“I’ll be damned!” murmured Harrigan, and his eyes dwelt on his companion’s face almost tenderly.
They were at the edge of the crowd when a shrill voice called: “Those two big men! Halt ’em! Stand!”
Officer Akana ran through the crowd with his regulation Colt brandished above his head.
“The time’s come!” said Harrigan’s new friend, and broke into a run.
CHAPTER 2
They were past the thick of the mob
