The rumble became a roar, a man struck out at Stacey, and Stacey promptly knocked him down. There was a general mix-up during which Stacey was surprised to find a man—one of the laborers, so far as he had time to see—fighting efficiently on his side.
The police, who must have been close-at-hand, presently smashed up the affray and rescued the two, whereupon Stacey, rather battered, but happier than he had been for a long while, swung about to investigate his comrade-in-arms.
“By the Lord! Burnham!” he cried, with real pleasure.
“The same, Captain,” said the other, instinctively raising his hand in salute, then dropping it again awkwardly.
But Stacey seized the hand and wrung it. Burnham had been first sergeant in one of his two companies.
Stacey gave his name to the police, observed that he was much obliged but that there was nothing to make a fuss about, and walked away with Burnham.
“Quite like old times, eh?” he remarked.
“Oh, this!” said Burnham, and spat scornfully.
“What are you doing up here?” Stacey demanded. “Thought you lived in Omaha.”
“Well, I did. And my wife and kids are still there with my wife’s sister. But I heard there was good work with better pay up here, so I come up to see, and I was drivin’ a truck, and then the boys went out—”