“It means,” said Joe grimly, “that one of you men is in for the licking of his life. Don’t tremble so, Fleming,” he added contemptuously. “I’ve already thrashed you once and I don’t care to soil my hands with you again. But I’ve been aching for months to get my fingers on the man that made me out a liar and a contract-breaker. I 241 have him now,” he added, with a steely glance at Braxton.
“Here, Jim,” he continued, stepping back, “take this flash. I’ve got some work to do.”
With a quick wrench he tore off his coat.
“You’d better be careful,” said Braxton—no longer the suave and polished trickster, but pale as chalk and trembling like a leaf. “This is assault and battery, and you’ll answer to the law.”
“Put up your hands,” said Joe curtly. “You’re as big a man as I am, but you’ve got to prove which is the better one. And you, Jim, keep your eye on Fleming and stand by to see fair play.”
Even a rat will fight when cornered and Braxton, seeing no alternative, threw off his coat and made a desperate rush at Joe. Joe met him with a clip to the jaw that shook him from head to foot. Then he sailed in and gave the scoundrel what he had promised—the thrashing of his life.
Braxton tried foul tactics, butted and kicked and tried to gouge and bite, but Joe’s powerful arms worked like windmills, his fists ripping savagely into Braxton’s face and chest. All the pent-up indignation and humiliation of the last few weeks found vent in those mighty blows, and soon, too soon to suit Joe, the man lay on the floor, whining and half-sobbing with shame and pain. 242
“Get up, you cur!” said Joe, as he pulled on his coat. “I’m not through with you yet.”
“You’re not going to hit him again, are you?” asked Fleming, while Braxton staggered painfully to his feet.
“No,” said Joe. “I guess he’s had enough.”