“Old Watson was a good old man,
And taught the Bible class,
But he didn’t like the story
Of the jawbone of the ass.
‘Why didn’t he make a popple-club,’
So Uncle Watson said,
‘And scotch the tribe of the Phlistereens
By bangin’ ’em on the head?’”
The blow that time staggered MacLeod.
“Chorus!” called “Poet” Larry. But before he could rap his antagonist at the end of that roaring iteration the Honorable Pulaski was between them, having at last contrived to fight his way through the ranks of the crowding men. He narrowly missed getting the blow intended for the boss. He yanked the sled-stake out of the nerveless grasp of the sweating and discomfited MacLeod, and raised it.
“Be careful, Mr. Britt,” yelped Gorman. His mien changed from gay insouciance to bitter fury. “You’ve struck me once in my life, and I took it and went on my way, because I was getting your grub and your pay. You strike me to-day, and I’ll split your head open like a rotten punkin!”
Britt had begun to rant that he could thrash the whole Enchanted crew single-handed. He was maddened by the lamblike demeanor of his own men. But he knew a desperate and dangerous man when he saw him. At that moment Larry Gorman was dangerous. The tyrant lowered his club and backed away, muttering some wordless recrimination at which the poet curled his lip. Seeing his chance, Tommy Eye hooked his legs about the uprights and slid down the ladder with one dizzy plunge, struck the ground in squatting fashion, and shot head-first into the ranks of his protectors.
But after that masterly raillery of Gorman’s there was no fight left in the “Busters.” And his vengeful bearding of the Honorable Pulaski left the autocrat himself speechless and helpless.
Tommy Eye’s trembling hand fingered his chin, his wistful eyes peered over the shoulders of his new friends, and he knew he was safe. The “Busters,” nudging each other and growling half-humorous comment, began to sift out of the yard of the Durfy hovel, and lounge back along the trail towards the Jerusalem camp.
“D—n ye for cowards!” yelled the Honorable Pulaski, viciously flinging the ash sled-stake after them.
“Oh, but they’re not cowards!” cried Larry. In his bushman’s soul he realized that even now a chance taunt, a random prick of word, might start the fight afresh. “Every man-jack there is known to me of old, and the good, brave boys they are! But your money ain’t greasy enough, Mr. Britt, to make good men as them fight to take away a comrade’s man-rights.”
The “Busters” nodded affirmation and kept on. One man stepped back and hallooed: “Right ye are, Larry Gorman! And when ye try to get your Enchanted logs first through the Hulling Machine next spring, ye’ll find that we’re the kind of gristle that can’t be chawed. That’ll be man’s business, and no Teamster Tommy Eye to stub a toe over!”