A Portuguese rose from nowhere and aimed a roundhouse swing at Rick's head. He ducked, then put all his weight into an overhand chop, missed, and fell against the Portuguese. The man threw him off and caught him behind the ear with a short hook. Rick shook his head, dazed. Another punch caught him on the cheek. He lost his temper then and flailed out. One fist connected solidly. The Portuguese vanished, to be replaced by someone else. Rick swung until his arms were leaden. Then, in the midst of the turmoil, came a stentorian bellow.
"Here! Listen!"
He turned. Canton Charlie was standing on the bar, and a sawed-off shotgun roamed impartially over the crowd. "The first man who pulls a knife gets this!" he shouted.
There was a roar from the mob, and the instant of silence dissolved into a melee again. Rick turned back to see how his friends were doing and saw a fist coming at him. He tried to bring his hands up, but he was too slow. The fist got bigger and bigger and bigger and exploded into bright lights. His knees buckled. He drifted off into peace and quiet.
CHAPTER XX
Home Flight
"The Golden Mouse," Keaton-Yeats said judiciously, "is rapidly becoming a purple mouse." He tilted Rick's face to the light. "I also see other colors. By the time you get home, a rainbow will be rather pale and dull by comparison."
"I got a mouse hung on me all right," Rick said. "And I didn't even see who did it."
"I did," Scotty volunteered. "It was a British seaman. Chahda polished him off with a bottle before you even hit the floor."