When Jake saw Petersen come up with the pistol he took his arms from about Tom. "Youse've got me done. I give in," he growled.
The two were rising when a wild voice sounded out hoarsely: "Come on! Come on now vid you!"
Tom, on his feet, turned toward Petersen. The Swede, left hand gripping the revolver about its barrel, stood in challenging attitude, his eyes blazing, saliva trickling from one corner of his mouth. "Yah! Come on!"
Tom recognized what he was seeing,—that wild Swedish rage that knows neither when it has beat nor when it is beaten; in this case all the less controllable from its long restraint.
Pete, Smoky, and Bill were now all on their feet and leaning against the wall. Petersen strode glaring before them, shaking his great fists madly. "Come on now!"
"Petersen!" Tom called.
"Come on vid you! I vant all dree!" The harsh voice rose into a shriek.
The three did not move. "For God's sake, Petersen! The fight's over!" Tom cried.
"Afraid! Yah! Afraid! I lick you all dree!"
With an animal-like roar he rushed at the three men. Smoky and Bill ducked and dashed away, but Jake stood his ground and put up his fists. A blow and he went to the floor. Petersen flung about to make for Smoky and Bill. Tom seized his arm.