rip to any appreciable extent. The boom,
the one engrossing idea in the minds of all alike, seemed to hold no
fascination for Hazon. To him it was a matter of absolutely no
importance. What the deuce, then, was he there for? His impenetrable
reserve, his out-of-the-common and striking personality, his rather
sinister expression, had earned for him a nick-name. He was known all
over the Rand as "Pirate" Hazon, or more commonly "The Pirate," because,
declared the Rand, he looked like one, and at any rate ought to be
hanged for one, to make sure.

Nobody, however, cared to use the epithet within his hearing. People
were afraid of him. One day in the street a tough, swaggering bully,
fearless in the consciousness of his powers as a first-class boxer,
lurched up against him, deliberately, and with offensive intent. Those
who witnessed the act stood by for the phase of excitement dearest of
all to their hearts, a row. There was that in Hazon's look which told
they were not to be disappointed.

"English manners?" he queried, in cutting, contemptuous tone.

"I'll teach you some," rejoined the fellow promptly. And without more
ado he dashed out a terrific left-hander, which the other just escaped
receiving full in the eye, but not entirely as to the cheekbone.

Hazon did not hit back, but what followed amazed even the bystanders.
It was like the spring of an animal--of a leopard or a
bull-dog--combining the lightning swiftness of the one with the grim,
fell ferocity of purpose of the other. The powerful rowdy was lying upon
his back in the red dust, swinging flail-like blows into empty air, and
upon him, in leopard-like crouch, pressing him to the earth, the man
whom he had so wantonly attacked. And his throat was compressed in those
brown, lean, muscular fingers, as in a claw of steel. It was horrible.
His eyes were starting from his head; his face grew blue, then black;
his swollen tongue protruded hideously. His struggles were terrific,
yet, powerful of frame as he was, he seemed like a child in the grasp of
a panther.

A shout of dismay, of warning, broke from the spectators, some of whom
sprang forward to separate the pair. But there was something so awful in
the expression of Hazon's countenance, in the glare of the coal-black
eyes, in the drawn-in brows and livid horror of fiendish wrath, that
even they stopped short. It was, as they said afterwards, as though they
had looked into the blasting countenance of a devil.