e apostle of anarchy
shrilled as the table crashed down. "I'll turn you over to the police!"

Clay jerked him to his feet. Hard knuckles pressed cruelly into the
soft throat of the Villager. "Git down on yore ham bones and beg the
lady's pardon, Son of the Stars, or I'll sure make you see a whole
colony of yore ancestors. Tell her you're a yellow pup, but you don't
reckon you'll ever pull a bone like that again. Speak right out in
meetin' _pronto_ before you bump into the tears and woe you was makin'
heap much oration about."

The proprietor of the cafe seized the cowpuncher by the arm hurriedly.
"Here, stop that! You get out of the place! I'll not stand for any
rough-house." And he murmured something about getting in bad with the
police. Clay tried to explain. "Me, I'm not rough-housing. I'm
tellin' this here Lord of Life to apologize to the little lady and let
her know that he's sorry he was fresh. If he don't I'll most ce'tainly
muss up the Sublimity of his Ego."

The companions of the poet rushed forward to protest at the manhandling
of their leader. Those in the rear jammed the front ones close to Clay
and his captive. The cowpuncher gently but strongly pushed them back.

"Don't get on the prod," he advised in his genial drawl. "The poet
he's got an important engagement right now."

A kind of scuffle developed. The proprietor increased it by his
hysterical efforts to prevent any trouble. Men joined themselves to
the noisy group of which Clay was the smiling center. The excitement
increased. Distant corners of the room became the refuge of the women.
Some one struck at the cowpuncher over the heads of those about him.
The mass of closely packed human beings showed a convulsive activity.
It became suddenly the most popular indoor sport at the Sea Siren to
slay this barbarian from the desert who had interfered with the
amusements of Bohemia.

But Clay took a lot of slaying. In the rough-and-tumble life of the
outdoor West he had learned how to look out for his own hand. The
copper hair of his strong lean head rose above the tangle of the melee
like the bromidic Helmet of Navarre. A reckless light of mirth bubbled
in his dare-devil eyes. The very number of the opponents who
interfered with each other trying to get at him was a guarantee of
safety. The blows showered at him lacked steam and were badly timed as
to distance.

The pack rolled across the room, tipped over a table, and deluged