houted.

There was a roar from the mob, and the instant of silence dissolved into
a melee again. Rick turned back to see how his friends were doing and
saw a fist coming at him. He tried to bring his hands up, but he was too
slow. The fist got bigger and bigger and bigger and exploded into bright
lights. His knees buckled. He drifted off into peace and quiet.

CHAPTER XX

Home Flight

"The Golden Mouse," Keaton-Yeats said judiciously, "is rapidly becoming
a purple mouse." He tilted Rick's face to the light. "I also see other
colors. By the time you get home, a rainbow will be rather pale and dull
by comparison."

"I got a mouse hung on me all right," Rick said. "And I didn't even see
who did it."

"I did," Scotty volunteered. "It was a British seaman. Chahda polished
him off with a bottle before you even hit the floor."

Zircon wrapped gauze around Bradley's knuckles. "For an ethnologist,
which is a peaceful profession, you are mighty quick to take offense,"
he stated.

"My boss is a sudden man," Chahda said from the bed where he lay with a
wet cloth on his head.

They were in their room at the Peninsular Hotel. Rick had recovered
under the urging of a bucket of water in the hands of Canton Charlie. He
was still wet. He stripped off his shirt and grinned as he looked around
him. All of them bore souvenirs. His own probably was the most colorful,
consisting of a black eye that covered nearly half of his face. Scotty
had a welt across his forehead that would last several days. Bradley had
lost most of the skin off the knuckles of his right hand. Zircon moved
gingerly, favoring his bruised ribs. Chahda and Keaton-Yeats bore
painful egg-shaped lumps from swung bottles.

"Happens at Charlie's every night," Bradley said. "Can't disappoint the
customers. Only a question of who starts it. Tonight I happened to be
the one. You get so you rather enjoy it after a while."

"As a sport, it will never replace checkers," Scotty said. He winced as
his fingers explored the welt on his forehead.

Rick chuckled. He could see what Bradley meant. As long as Canton
Charlie's shotgun ensured fair play, to the extent of no knives, it was
just a free-for-all such as might happen anywhere--at least where seamen
gathered.

"It's like swimming in cold water," he said. "Getting in is tough, but
it's kind of fun once you've made the plunge."

Bradley flexed his bandaged hand. "That's right. Now, it's getting late
and I sti