But the man's small wits were now completely gone. He opened his mouth obediently, then, uttering a scream, a raucous, animal cry, he sprang at his tormentor. But a dozen hands seized and dragged him back.
"Hold him, boys! I'll skin the tip of his nose for that."
As Michigan swung his whip the roustabout sent forth scream on scream. Foam gathered on his lips. Terror had driven him insane.
"No, no!" the cook remonstrated. "That's enough, Red—that's enough!"
Unheeding, the teamster took aim, swung, then—another lash tangled in his. Yelling with the sudden pain of a twisted wrist, he swung round on Carter. Unobserved, he had run across from his office, snatched up Sliver's whip, tangled Michigan's lash, and jerked it over his shoulder.
"Boys"—he now faced the flushed crowd—"I don't allow to mix up with your fun, but what do you call this?"
One glance at the bloody weal on the roustabout's neck and the brutal mob resolved into its individual components, each a unit of sorrow for its share in the torture.
"Jest a poor fool at that." Carter laid his hand on the simpleton's shoulder.
"Shore, shore! Yes!" the cook agreed. "It's too bad. We didn't go to do that. No. We jest calculated to have a little fun, an' carried it a leetle too far."
"That's so! That's so!" Carrots, Smith, and Sliver all seconded the cook, all voicing repentant public opinion.