The seaman picked up the severed finger, shook it in the man’s face and flung it on the ground beside him.
“Splice it, Jack! Splice it!” He was cursing the fallen man brokenly. Martin looked away....
Then he saw the boy whose brother had been killed in Detroit. “Automobiles,” thought Martin. The boy had no club and was on his back, fighting desperately with a large man from the car. Martin crawled to his knees, not feeling his injured arm or his split chin. He stood waveringly for a moment and got to them just as the man’s broad hand was spearing the boy’s face. Martin knew that he was falling again, not fighting, as he reached them; but he dug his teeth into a fleshy neck and held on as though he were killing a snake, while the body beneath him thrashed and cried. A hard hand pulled him off. Rio was standing above him.
“It’s over, Martin. We got a car.... Come, men!”
Martin spat out blood and climbed into the automobile along with the others.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Martin went slowly to Roberts’ apartment house, his head lowered. His right arm was in a sling, the lower part of his mouth was bruised and split. His nose was swollen. He went up in the elevator to Roberts’ rooms and rang once. A doctor came out into the hall. For a moment the two men regarded each other speculatively. Martin saw the blue, introspective eyes, the strong turn of the chin and the gray hairline, receding deeply at the temples. The physician saw a young man with a broken, illusive face.
“I’m Martin Devaud, Doctor. I’m Roberts’ friend. I heard he asked for me.”