t suddenly glass and
bottles went singing through the air. They were thrown point blank at
bobbing heads. The pyramid of shimmering glasses, that had never been
disturbed, changed to cascades as heavy bottles were flung into them.
Mirrors splintered to nothing.

The three frothing creatures on the floor buried themselves in a frenzy
for blood. There followed in the wake of missiles and fists some
unknown prayers, perhaps for death.

The quiet stranger had sprawled very pyrotechnically out on the
sidewalk. A laugh ran up and down the avenue for the half of a block.

"Dey've trowed a bloke inteh deh street."

People heard the sound of breaking glass and shuffling feet within the
saloon and came running. A small group, bending down to look under the
bamboo doors, watching the fall of glass, and three pairs of violent
legs, changed in a moment to a crowd.

A policeman came charging down the sidewalk and bounced through the
doors into the saloon. The crowd bended and surged in absorbing
anxiety to see.

Jimmie caught first sight of the on-coming interruption. On his feet
he had the same regard for a policeman that, when on his truck, he had
for a fire engine. He howled and ran for the side door.

The officer made a terrific advance, club in hand. One comprehensive
sweep of the long night stick threw the ally to the floor and forced
Pete to a corner. With his disengaged hand he made a furious effort at
Jimmie's coat-tails. Then he regained his balance and paused.

"Well, well, you are a pair of pictures. What in hell yeh been up to?"

Jimmie, with his face drenched in blood, escaped up a side street,
pursued a short distance by some of the more law-loving, or excited
individuals of the crowd.

Later, from a corner safely dark, he saw the policeman, the ally and
the bartender emerge from the saloon. Pete locked the doors and then
followed up the avenue in the rear of the crowd-encompassed policeman
and his charge.

On first thoughts Jimmie, with his heart throbbing at battle heat,
started to go desperately to the rescue of his friend, but he halted.

"Ah, what deh hell?" he demanded of himself.

Chapter XII

In a hall of irregular shape sat Pete and Maggie drinking beer. A
submissive orchestra dictated to by a spectacled man with frowsy hair
and a dress suit, industriously followed the bobs of his head and the
waves of his baton. A ballad singer, in a dress of flaming scarlet,
sang in the i