Bill came. He covered the intervening space at a bound, springing swiftly and straight—as panthers spring; and as his moccasined feet touched the floor he struck. Once, twice, thrice—and all so quickly that the onlookers received no sense of repeated effort.
The terrific force of the well-placed blows, and their deadly accuracy, seemed to be consecutive parts of a single, continuous, smoothly flowing movement.
In the tense silence sounds rang sharp—the peculiar smack of living flesh hard hit, as the first blow landed just below the ear, the dull thump of a heavy body blow, and the clash of teeth driven against teeth as the sagging jaw of the big Swede snapped shut to the impact of the long swing that landed full on his chin's point.
The huge form stiffened, spun half-way around, and toppled sidewise against a rack of drying garments, which fell with a crash to the floor.
Without so much as a glance at the ludicrously sprawled figure, Bill picked up his mackinaw and returned the envelope to the pocket.
"Irish," he asked, "where is the van? I must get some blankets. My nurse, there, says it's time to turn in."
"Oi'll go wid ye," said Fallon, and a roar of laughter followed them out into the night.
CHAPTER XVIII
"BIRD'S-EYE" AND PHILOSOPHY