A WARM RECEPTION
"I have me eye on the right place, as Father Mickle said whin he wint
into the saloon to pull out Jim Gerrigan by the nape of his neck."
Mike Murphy pointed to a small, faded yellow house which stood at the top
of a gentle slope on their right. It was a hundred yards from the river
and a faintly marked, winding path led from it down to the bank. The
surrounding land showed meagre cultivation, and the looks were anything
but inviting.
On the little porch sat a big man with grizzled whiskers, smoking a
brier-wood pipe, his beamlike legs crossed and his arms folded as he
moodily watched the launch.
"It strikes me as a poor promise," remarked Alvin, who, nevertheless,
asked Chester to steer to the shore to see whether a landing could be
readily made. The prospect was good, as a shaky framework had evidently
been placed there for use, though no small boat was near.
Chester brought the _Deerfoot_ alongside with the skill that the owner of
the launch would have shown. Alvin sprang lightly upon the structure,
which sagged under his weight, caught the rope tossed to him by Chester,
and fastened it around one of the rickety supports. The boat was made
fast.
"I'll walk up to the house and have a talk with the gintleman," said
Mike, stepping carefully out upon the boards. "Do I look hungry?" he
asked of Alvin, who replied:
"You always have that expression."
"I'm glad to hear it, fur I wish to impriss the gintleman that that's my
condition. I'll assoom a weak, hisitating walk. Do ye abide here aginst
me return and repoort."
Detective Calvert retained his seat and lighted another cigar. Chester
sat with his hand idly resting on the wheel. Alvin kept his place on the
tiny dock, and all three watched Mike Murphy. They smiled, for the
stooping shoulders of the Irish youth and his feeble gait were those of a
man of four-score. The huge stranger sat like a statue, slowly puffing
his pipe, his glowering eyes fixed on the approaching lad.
With each advancing step, Mike's doubts increased. The nearer he came to
the stranger, the more forbidding he appeared. Had the lad followed his
inclination he would have turned back, but he knew his friends were
watching him. Besides which, he was really hungry.
He had passed half the distance between the boat and the house,
scrutinizing the scowling fellow all the time, when the latter made his
first movement. He uncrossed his huge legs, took the pipe from between
his lips and emitted a low whistle.
"He must be so cheered at sight of me that he is obleeged to give
exprission to his feelings--Begorra!"
Around the end of the house dashed a mongrel dog, and halting abruptly
with pricked ears, glanced at his master to hear his command. The canine
was of moderate size, black and white in color, one eye wrapped about by
an inky splash of hair that made him look as if the organ was in
mourning.
Holding the pipe away from his lips, the man pointed the stem toward
Mike, who had paused, and said to his dog:
"Sick him, Nick! Sick him!"
And the dog proceeded to "go for" the caller. Had the latter run away,
the brute would have been at his heels, nipping and biting at each step.
But Mike had no thought of retreating. He was filled with anger at his
inhospitable reception and gave his whole attention to the animal, which
with a muttered growl charged full speed at him.
Mike noticed that a collar with projecting spikes encircled the stumpy
neck, and never was one of his breed more eager to bury his teeth in a
victim's anatomy.
"This is going to be a shindy sure, as Micky Rooney said when he tackled
five p'licemen--and I haven't even a shillaleh in hand."
Mike coolly braced himself for the shock, not yielding an inch nor
turning his gaze from his foe. It was no longer a doddering old man who
faced the stranger, but a sturdy youth, muscular, brave and always eager
for the fray.
Nothing could surpass the skill with which the first assault was
repelled. At the exact moment Mike launched his shoe, the toe of which
caught Nick under the jaw and caused him to turn a backward somersault.
He uttered several yelps, but the blow added if possible to his rage.
The dog was so bewildered for the moment that he lost his sense of
direction, and made a dash toward the porch where his master was watching
proceedings.
"Sick him, Nick! Sick him!" he called, pointing his finger at the lad.
Nick impetuously obeyed orders, and at the critical moment Mike launched
a second kick, which, however, was not delivered with the mathematical
exactness of the first. It landed in the canine's neck and drove him back
several paces, but he kept his balance, and came on again with the same
headlong fierceness as before.
It was at this juncture that Stockham Calvert flung away his cigar,
sprang from his chair and with one bound landed beside Alvin Landon.
"I don't intend that Mike shall get into trouble."
As he spoke, he laid his hand on his hip pocket where reposed his
revolver.
"It looks as if it's the dog that is in trouble," replied Alvin, his
cheek tingling with pride at sight of the bravery of his comrade.
"If he had to fight only one brute I shouldn't fear, but there are two
against him. When Mike is through with the dog he will have to face his
master. I shall be ready to give him help."
"You don't mean to shoot the fellow?" said the alarmed Captain.
"It won't be necessary," was the quiet response.
The next exploit of Mike was brilliant. He did not kick at the dog, for
that only deferred the decisive assault, but as the mongrel rose in air,
he side-stepped with admirable quickness, gripped him by the baggy skin
at the back of his neck, and, slipping his hand under the spiky collar,
held him fast. The brute snarled, writhed, snapped his jaws and strove
desperately to insert his teeth into some part of his captor, who held
him off so firmly that he could do no harm.
Mike now turned and began walking hurriedly toward the launch, with the
squirming captive still in his iron grip.
The infuriated owner sprang from his seat and leaped down the steps.
"Drop that dog!" he shouted, striding after Mike, who called back:
"I'll drop him as soon as I raich the river."
Afraid of being checked, the youth broke into a trot, and an instant
later was at the landing, the yelping mongrel still firmly gripped. Back
and forth Mike swung him as if he were the huge bob of a pendulum, and
then let go. He curved over the launch, like an elongated doughnut, and
dropped into the current with a splash. But all quadrupeds swim the first
time they enter the water. In an instant, the brute came to the surface,
and working all his legs vigorously, came smoothly around the stern of
the launch, and headed for Mike with the purpose of renewing the attack.
The man, who had dropped his pipe and strode down the walk, was over six
feet in height, of large frame, and manifestly the possessor of great
muscular strength. Although he knew his dog had suffered no harm and was
safe, he was enraged over his maltreatment and resolute to wreak
vengeance upon the author of the insult.
Mike read his purpose, poised himself and put up his fists.
"Now for the next dog and it's mesilf that is ready fur him."
It would give me pleasure to tell how Mike Murphy vanquished the giant
who attacked him, but such a statement would be as untrue as absurd. You
have read of the dude who daintily slipped off his kid gloves, adjusted
his eyeglasses, and proceeded to chastise an obstreperous cowboy; but
take it from me that no such thing ever occurred, except in stories.
Nature governs through rigid laws, and two and two will always make four.
It might have been creditable to the courage of the Irish youth thus to
engage in a bout with a man who would have quickly beaten him to the
earth, but it would have shown very poor judgment. Had they clashed there
could have been only one end to the encounter.
But they did not clash. Several paces separated the two, when Stockham
Calvert, his thin gray coat buttoned around his trim form, stepped
quickly between them, and, looking sharply into the face of the savage
stranger, said in a voice that showed not the least agitation:
"Stop! he's my friend!"
He raised one hand, palm outward by way of emphasis of his warning words.
"Who are you?" demanded the other, stopping short, his eyes flaming above
his shaggy beard and under his straw hat, like an animal glaring through
a thicket.
"Come on and you'll learn!" was the reply in the same even tones, as
Calvert assumed the posture of a trained pugilist.
Now it is proper to say of this man that he had been the champion boxer
in college, and in his New York club he was easily the master of every
one with whom he had donned the gloves. Though of only average size and
stature and inclined to thinness, his muscles were of steel, he had the
quickness of a cat, and had been told more than once, that if he would
enter the "magic circle" he would hold his own with the best in the
profession. But, like all gentlemen who are masters of the manly art, he
disliked personal encounters, and many a time had submitted to insulting
words and even the accusation of timidity, rather than to call his iron
fists and superb skill into play. You might have been in his company for
months without suspecting his attainments in that respect. His business
required that he should always carry a revolver, and when he placed his
hand on his hip at sight of Mike Murphy's personal danger, the action was
instinctive, but he instantly gave up all thought of using so deadly a
weapon. He was certain there was no necessity for it; he had no more
doubt of his mastery of the bulky brute, who was equally confident, than
he had of his ability to handle any one of the three lads who were his
companions.