“Hold on,” cut in Garrison. He had risen slowly, and was dabbing furtively at his nose with a silk red-and-blue handkerchief--the Waterbury colors.
“Just a minute,” he added, striving to keep his voice from sliding the scale. He was horribly calm, but his gray eyes were quivering as was his lip. “I didn't throw it. I--I didn't throw it. I was sick. I--I've been sick. I--I----” Then, for he was only a boy with a man's burdens, his lip began to quiver pitifully; his voice shrilled out and his words came tumbling forth like lava; striving to make up by passion and reiteration what they lacked in logic and coherency. “I'm not a thief. I'm not. I'm honest. I don't know how it happened. Everything became a blur in the stretch. You--you've called me a liar, Mr. Waterbury. You've called me a thief. You struck me. I know you can lick me,” he shrilled. “I'm dishonored--down and out. I know you can lick me, but, by the Lord, you'll do it here and now! You'll fight me. I don't like you. I never liked you. I don't like your face. I don't like your hat, and here's your damn colors in your face.” He fiercely crumpled the silk handkerchief and pushed it swiftly into Waterbury's glowering eye.
Instantly there was a mix-up. The crowd was blood-hungry. They had paid for sport of some kind. There would be no crooked work in this deal. Lustfully they watched. Then the inequality of the boy and the man was at length borne in on them, and it roused their stagnant sense of fair play.
Garrison, a small hell let loose, had risen from the turf for the third time! His face was a smear of blood, venom, and all the bandit passions. Waterbury, the gentleman in him soaked by the taint of a foisted dishonor and his fighting blood roused, waited with clenched fists. As Garrison hopped in for the fourth time, the older man feinted quickly, and then swung right and left savagely.
The blows were caught on the thick arm of a tan box-coat. A big hand was placed over Waterbury's face and he was given a shove backward. He staggered for a ridiculously long time, and then, after an unnecessary waste of minutes, sat down. The tan overcoat stood over him. It was Jimmy Drake, and the chameleonlike crowd applauded.