“Jack, old man,” said Bright, in a coaxing tone, “just come upstairs for a quarter of an hour, and get quiet—”
“Oh—that’s it, is it? You think I’m screwed. I’m not. Let me go—once—twice—”
Ralston’s face was now white with anger. The
unjust accusation was the last drop. He was growing dangerous, but Bright, in the pride of his superior strength, still held him firmly.
“Take care!” said Ralston, almost in a whisper. “I’ve counted two.” He paused a full two seconds. “Three! There you go!”
The other men saw his foot glide forward like lightning over the marble pavement. Instantly Bright was thrown heavily on his back, and before he could even raise his head, Ralston was out of the door and in the street. Crowdie and Miner ran forward to help the fallen man, as they had not moved from where they had stood, a dozen paces away. But Bright was on his feet in an instant, pale with anger and with the severe shock of his fall. He turned his back on his companions at once, pretending to brush the dust from his coat by the bright light which fell through the glass door. Frank Miner stood near him, very quiet, his hands in his pockets, as usual, and a puzzled look in his face.
“Look here, Bright,” he said gravely, watching Bright’s back. “This sort of thing can’t go on, you know.”