"Say, what do you think I am—a punching-bag?"
The angry American leaped up, and instantly Sara Helmuth was holding to his arms, half-laughing, half-crying as she looked up at him. Solomon chuckled.
"I thought as 'ow that'd fetch 'im about, miss! Sit down, sit down, Mr. 'Ammer. It's only John Solomon, a-'itting of you flat-'anded. Sit down, sir."
Hammer obeyed, utterly bewildered, still holding the girl's hands. The hysterical seizure passed and and left him very weak.
"Then I'm not dead, Sara?"
"Not as anybody knows on, sir," returned Solomon cheerfully, and his voice changed suddenly. "Miss, leave us alone for a minute, if you please."
Obediently, the girl rose, and stepped outside the tent, Hammer looking after in terror lest it was all a dream. Solomon came and sat beside him, gripping his hand.
"'Ere, buck up, sir! I'm sorry there ain't a drop o' liquor, but there ain't. Now you brace up ship-shape and proper, Mr. 'Ammer—you 'ear me? Buck up, I say! You ain't 'urt and you ain't dead, and if I punches you one in the eye you'll know it. Beggin' your pardon, sir, but don't be a——"
And there came a flood of low-pitched but biting words that effected their purpose. Hammer forced control over himself with a shudder and gripped back at Solomon's hand.
"'I'm all right, John," he said shakily. "But—but it's hard—to realize. Call Sara, will you?"