Randal had seen more than that when he burst through the welter of men. In the red of the bar and the lamp Art Scannell stood, capless and coatless, drumming the tambourine snatched from Maiden, and shouting words that brought Randal’s clapped hand over his mouth. Art struck him without delay. Then the surge of the struggle swung them apart. The black night rocked with shouts and cursing and ribald laughter. On a wave-crest Steve’s face gleamed white, with drops of sweat on the forehead, and Randal heard the crack of his shut fist once and again. Came a flash of Roddy’s scared boy-face where great hands forced him down on his knee-bones. Into the tossed wrath and fury, and the stench of spirits and heated men, Murray’s voice clanged like struck iron. Purdey was laughing on the outskirts. It was for Murray to handle these men down here. He would wring out his own payment beyond North-of-Sunday.
Somewhere out of the blaring sounds reared Pug Chaney’s challenging war-note, and Lou answered with his light glad laugh, and the lithe spring of a seeking tiger. The two went down beneath the turning boots, and Randal baulked Murray’s charge with his shoulder. Murray staggered sideways, and Randal saw Ormond’s strong clean-cut face behind. His teeth caught on his lip as he wrenched Murray’s hands from Art’s sleeve.
