seized the uplifted wrist with both hands, Applegate pounced
on the other arm. Pringle leaped through the doorway. But something
happened swifter than Pringle's swift rush. Foy's knee shot up to
Applegate's stomach. Applegate fell, sprawling. Foy hurled himself on
Creagan and bore him crashing to the floor. Foy whirled over; he rose
on one hand and knee, gun drawn, visibly annoyed; also considerably
astonished at the unexpected advent of Mr. Pringle. Applegate lay
groaning on the floor. Pringle kicked his gun from the holster and set
foot upon it; one of his own guns covered the bartender and the other
kept watch on Espalin, silent on his still-tilted chair.

"Who're you!" challenged Foy.

"Friend with the countersign. Don't shoot! Don't shoot me, anyhow."

Foy rose from hand and knee to knee and foot. This rescuer, so
opportunely arrived from nowhere, seemed to be an ally. But to avoid
mistakes, Foy's gun followed Pringle's motions, at the same time
willing and able to blow out Creagan's brains if advisable. He also
acquired Creagan's gun quite subconsciously.

"Let me introduce myself, gentlemen," said Pringle. "I'm
Jack-in-a-Pinch, Little Friend of the Under Dog--see Who's This? page
two-thirteen. My German friend, come out from behind that bar--hands
up--step lively! Spot yourself! My Mexican friend, join Mr. Max.
Move, you poisonous little spider--jump! That's better! Gentlemen--be
seated! Right there--smack, slapdab on the floor. Sit down and think.
Say! I'm serious. Am I going to have to kill some few of you just
because you don't know who I am? I'll count three! One! two!--That's
it. Very good--hold that--register anticipation! I am a worldly man,"
said Pringle with emotion, "but this spectacle touches me--it does
indeed!"

"I'll get square with you!" gurgled Applegate, as fiercely as his
breathless condition would permit.

"George--may I call you George? I don't know your name. You may get
square with me, George--but you'll never be square with anyone. You
are a rhomboidinaltitudinous isosohedronal catawampus, George!"

George raved unprintably. He made a motion to rise, but reconsidered
it as he noted the tension of Pringle's trigger finger.

"Don't be an old fuss-budget, George," said Pringle reprovingly.
"Because I forgot to tell you--I've got my gun now--and yours. You
won't need to arrest me, though, for I'm hitting the trail in fifteen
minutes. But if I wasn't going--and if you had your gun--you