The Game of Foils

The grave-faced, yet good-natured giant pressed his way through the
tangled mass of obstructing bushes, and unceremoniously proceeded to
proclaim peace. His methods were characteristic of one slow of speech,
yet swift of action. With one great hand gripping the Swede, he
suddenly swung that startled individual at full length backward into
the still smouldering embers of the fire, holding the gasping Mike down
to earth with foot planted heavily upon his chest. It was over in an
instant, Swanson sputtering unintelligible oaths while beating sparks
from his overalls, the Irishman profanely conscious of the damage
wrought to his eye, and the overwhelming odds against him. Señorita
Mercedes clapped her little hands in delight at the spectacle, her
steps light as those of the dance, the girlish joy in her eyes frank
and unreserved.

"Ah, de Señor Brown--bueno! Dey vas just children to you even ven
dey fight, hey? It vas good to see such tings doin', just like de
play."

She circled swiftly up toward him, a happy bird of gay, fluttering
plumage, pressing her fingers almost caressingly along the swelling
muscle of his arm, and gazing with earnest admiration up into his face.
Beneath the witching spell of her eyes the man's cheeks reddened. He
took the way of savagery out of unexpected embarrassment.

"Th-that 's enough, now, Swanson," he commanded, the stutter largely
vanishing before the requirement of deeds. "Th-this is no c-continuous
vaudeville, an' ther curtain's rung d-down on yer act. Mike, yer ol'
varmint, if yer do any more swearin' while ther lady's yere I 'll knock
ther words back down yer throat. Yer know me, so shut up. Th-thar'll
be fightin' in p-plenty fer both o' yer presently, the way things look.
Now, vamoose, the two o' yer, an' be quiet about it. Mike, y-yer
better do something fer yer eyes if yer wanter see well 'nough ter take
a pot-shot at Farnham's gang."