But his henchman, Skookum, had already perceived how the fight was
going and his discretion proved much greater than his valour. He
dropped the lantern and darted out at the door. As good luck
would have it, the lantern fell right-end up and, after wobbling
precariously on its rim, sat upright in the corner, blinked, then
continued to shed a fitful light over the scene.

Phil, with anger unabated, darted in on Brenchfield, smashing at him
right and left. The latter tottered. Phil sprang in and clutched at
his throat. Both went forcibly to the ground, with Brenchfield
undermost. Phil gripped and squeezed and shook with almost ferocious
brutality, until the Mayor's struggles became less and less violent,
and finally ceased. And after that, Phil's grip did not relax, for
that murderlust, which he had read of and heard of but had never
before understood, was on him.

Had it not been for a quiet, pleading voice and a little hand that
slipped over his and along his fingers, pushing its way between his
and the soft throat of his adversary, the sunlight would have gone out
of his life for all time.

"Please, Phil,--please!" she cried. "Don't! Phil--you would not kill
him! You must not,--for my sake, for my sake! He isn't worth it. Phil,
Phil,--let him go!"

And the murderlust--as it had done so often before at the gentle but
all powerful pleading of God's women--shrank back, dwindled down, then
faded into its native oblivion.

Phil's fingers relaxed and he rose slowly, working his hands
convulsively, then pushing his wet hair back from his forehead, as he
looked first down at the gasping figure of his hated adversary and
then in open-eyed amazement at Eileen.

"Thanks!" he said, very quietly.

"Why did you do that?" she said. "What has he done?"

For answer, Phil caught her by the arm and turned her about-face.

A bundle of rags was trussed against the post of one of the stalls.
Phil lifted the lantern from the ground and held it up.

"Oh!--oh, dear God!" she wailed piteously, running forward with hands
outstretched. "Quick, Phil!--loose the ropes. The hound!--oh, the
miserable, foul hound!" she continued.

Phil drew a pocket knife and slashed the ropes that held poor, little,
half-unconscious Smiler.

They set the boy gently in a corner; and slowly, in response to
crooning words and loving hands that stroked his dirty, wet brow, he
came to; and what a great smile he had for Eileen as she laid her
tear-stained