"Then what do they do it for?" she asked. "You had better take more than one chop; they're pretty small, and you've got a big day's work ahead--and behind."
"Why," I argued, "they fight for power, or reputation, or money, or a pair of brown eyes--or blue, as the case may be--for fear somebody will think them afraid--for anger--for almost any reason but enjoyment. I saw ten thousand men in a scrimmage last night, and there were not twenty of them there because they enjoyed the fight. At any rate, I can assure you that the man in the crowd I have the best right to speak for wished himself anywhere but in the front rank of battle."
"Humph!" sniffed Miss Laura incredulously. "I know very well that you couldn't have been hired to keep out of it. You haven't been doing much else but fighting since I got to know you."
"It wasn't from choice," I pleaded.
"Just tell me what happened, and how," she said. "I was scared blue last night with fire-bells and hooting whistles, and men shouting in the streets; and when I peeked out I saw a glare down town as though half the city was going up in smoke."
Laura listened with a grave face as I gave a succinct account of the night's adventures.
"And do you really believe that Mr. Bolton set fire to uncle's lumber-yards?" she asked.
"In person or by proxy," I replied.
"Well, there doesn't seem to be any end to his wickedness," she said. "I suppose he's prepared to finish us to-day."
"I don't think we can count on repentance--not from him. We shall have to find something a great deal safer than that to pull us through. Has your uncle dropped any more hints about that million dollars?"