“Where is the girl?”
A gliding sounded over the matting of the room beyond the screen. Emily thrust her head through the doorway. Her sherry-colored eyes were red-rimmed, glazed with tears, sullen. The Dropper had just finished his morning hate by upbraiding her.
“Wot t’hell’s comin’ off?” rumbled the dive-keeper. “Beat it, cul, before I wake up. I’m going to wham yuh one.”
Fay swiftly hooked his cane over the edge of an empty bunk, removed his hat, took off his coat, and rolled up his sleeves.
“I didn’t bring a gat!” he snapped. “I don’t need one. Get into that room, set the card-table back and pile up the chairs. Get ready, you fink, for what’s coming to you.”
The Dropper found himself in the grip of a situation not exactly to his liking. He backed from Fay. He crashed over the screen. He turned, thrust Emily aside, and shelved forward his shoulders in an aggressive posture. His brows worked up and down. The scar on his cheek grew livid.
“Hol’ on,” he started to protest.
Fay stepped swiftly forward, whipped over a lightning uppercut, and jabbed with his left fist toward the brute’s stomach. Both blows had force enough to land the Dropper against the card-table.
He went down like a pole-axed bullock. He rose in his might and rage. His bellowing could have been heard a block away. He came at Fay unskillfully—thrown off balance by the sudden attack.