CHAPTER XIV.—THE FEDERAL UNION: IT MUST BE PRESERVED.
Doubtless, since my very palms itched to be about that employment, I would have had my hands on others of the rogue crew, but I was granted no chance. Rivera poured himself against the scoundrels like a torrent. Quick, catlike, springing in and out, he smote upon two of them as with a poleaxe, and they went to the grass like folk of wood. The sound of the blows came to my ears as clearly as the click of balls in a billiard game. Beholding the thunderbolt work of Rivera, the others, losing courage, and with a concert of curses and growling cries, turned tail and ran.
There was one, however, of those who were yet upon their ignoble feet, to save himself this disgrace. When the rest ran off crying among the trees, this man would tarry; he was that wide-shouldered fighting man who was thought to match Rivera. For reasons of his own, and perhaps they were in a rude sort chivalric and to his credit, this fellow had not rushed upon us with the others, but stood at some distance looking on, arms folded across his chest. Now, when all were down or vanished in the dark, he, with arms still folded, came slowly towards Rivera.
“Volks tells me, lad,” said the fighting man as, arms still at peace, he paused within a few yards of Rivera, who would be coolly waiting for him, “volks tells me as 'ow you be summat of a boxer; and vor a certainty, you does make beef of them coves in a vorkmanlike vay—you does, upon my davy! But now, d'ye see, you settles vith me—me, Jim Burns of W'itechapel.”
“Assuredly!” returned Rivera, and his deep tones, like the roll of an organ, would carry the impression of one in wondrous good humor, “I shall be most pleased to settle with you. See, you may take your time; there is no hurry.”
The other, who seemed to have faith in the leisurely mood of Rivera, softly doffed coat and waistcoat, and stood in his shirt of gray cloth, trousers and shoes. Rivera similarly prepared himself; he would meet his enemy in the same light costume.
“Best to turn up your trowsers, lad,” advised the fighting man, “as I does. They may 'inder your veet, else, in steppin'.”
When these improvements had been wrought, the fighting man's thought would double a new corner.
“And yet,” he remarked, complainingly, “w'at's the bloomin' use? 'Ere's them coves all run away”—pointing to the last of the trio whom Rivera had beaten down, as that unworthy staggered to his feet and lurched off into the darkness—“an' no purse nor nothink to vight for. I sees no use, lad, in our puttin' hup our 'ands.” This last in a grieved tone.