ostrils quiver like those of a charger
that scents the smoke of battle, and I realised that he should have been
a soldier still, a leader of forlorn hopes, a partner of desperate
hazards.

As we walked along, Jim did most of the talking in his favourite
morality vein. The Jam-wagon puffed silently at his briar pipe, while I,
very listless and downhearted, thought largely of my own troubles. Then,
in the middle of the block, where most of the music-halls were situated,
suddenly we met Locasto.

When I saw him my heart gave a painful leap, and I think my face must
have gone as white as paper. I had thought much over this meeting, and
had dreaded it. There are things which no man can overlook, and, if it
meant death to me, I must again try conclusions with the brute.

He was accompanied by a little bald-headed Jew named Spitzstein, and we
were almost abreast of them when I stepped forward and arrested them. My
teeth were clenched; I was all a-quiver with passion; my heart beat
violently. For a moment I stood there, confronting him in speechless
excitement.

He was dressed in that miner's costume in which he always looked so
striking. From his big Stetson to his high boots he was typically the
big, strong man of Alaska, the Conqueror of the Wild. But his mouth was
grim as granite, and his black eyes hard and repellent as those of a
toad.

"Oh, you coward!" I cried. "You vile, filthy coward!"

He was looking down on me from his imperious height, very coolly, very
cynically.

"Who are you?" he drawled; "I don't know you."

"Liar as well as coward," I panted. "Liar to your teeth. Brute, coward,
liar----"

"Here, get out of my way," he snarled; "I've got to teach you a lesson."

Once more before I could guard he landed on me with that terrible
right-arm swing, and down I went as if a sledgehammer had struck me.
But instantly I was on my feet, a thing of blind passion, of desperate
fight. I made one rush to throw myself on this human tower of brawn and
muscle, when some one pinioned me from behind. It was Jim.

"Easy, boy," he was saying; "you can't fight this big fellow."

Spitzstein was looking on curiously. With wonderful quickness a crowd
had collected, all avidly eager for a fight. Above them towered the
fierce, domineering figure of Locasto. There was a breathless pause,
then, at the psychological moment, the Jam-wagon intervened.

The smouldering fire in his eye had brightened into a fierce joy; his
twitc