Sax looked from one to the other of us. Suddenly he sprang up, giving the table such a push it landed on its back against the wall. "I hate to be the only blackguard in the party," he said, and stood furious, panting.
Perez slipped to me and whispered, "Mind him not—for two weeks, day and night, brandy, brandy, brandy—it has not drunken him—but the man is mad."
"What are you whispering about?" demanded Sax, so savagely I got ready for action. "If you've anything to say about me, let me hear it—I yearn for interesting news." He had his fist drawn back as he came up to Perez.
The little man's face went white. "Arthur," he said, "would you strike me?"
"I'd strike any one—any dirty sneak who'd talk about me behind my back."
"Arthur," said Perez, slowly, "when I was a poor, sickly, sad little boy at a Northern school I had a friend who protected me, who took many a blow for my sake; when I was a young man, sick with la viruela, I had a friend who risked his life to save mine; as an older man, I have a friend who can take my life if he wishes—strike."
And so help me! He would have struck! Never tell me a man is this and that. A man is everything. In his right mind, nothing an Apache invented would have forced Arthur Saxton to do such a thing—no fear on earth, nor no profit on earth would have tempted him for an instant. But now he would have struck.
I grabbed his wrist.
"You fool!" I cried, "what are you doing?" He clipped me bang in the eye. Saxton was a strong man, weakened by whisky. I was twice as strong and braced with rage.
I whirled him around and slammed him on the floor.