"Something's wrong."
"Wrong? What the devil could be wrong?" McClintock had demanded, irascibly. He had particular reasons for wanting to keep Spurlock away from the jetty.
"I haven't any answer for that; but I'm going back after her. She wanted to come, and I wouldn't let her."
"Run along, then."
* * * * *
"To me, you dirty blackguard!" cried Spurlock, flinging aside his helmet. That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons.
"She was mine before you ever saw her." The Wastrel tried to reach
Ruth's lips.
"You lie!"
Head down, fists doubled, Spurlock rushed: only to be met with a kick which was intended for the groin but which struck the thigh instead. Even then it sent Spurlock spinning backward, to crash against the wall. He felt no pain from this cowardly kick. That would come later. Again he rushed. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp.
The Wastrel did not relish this. He flung Ruth aside, careless whether she fell or not. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. He brought into service all his Oriental bar-room tricks. Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark. From all angles he was at a disadvantage—in weight, skill, endurance. But Ruth was his woman, and he had sworn to God to defend her.