had nauseated him in his companion, he was about to lay his man when the same voice that called before, yelled in horror—
"Look out, for God's sake, Fairfax, he's got a knife."
At the word, Fairfax gave a wrench, caught his companion's right hand with his left and twisted the wrist, and before he knew how he had accomplished it, he had flung the man and knife from him. The knife hit Number Twenty-four and rattled and the fireman fell in a lump on the ground. Fairfax stood over him.
"What a mean lout you are," he said in the jargon he had learned to speak, "what a mean pup. Now you get up, Tito, and clear out."
The fellow rose with difficulty, white, trembling, punched a little about the face, and breathing like a saw-mill. Some one handed the knife to Fairfax.
"It never was made in America. It's a deadly weapon. Ugh, you onion!"
The Italian wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve and spat out on the floor.
Fairfax felt better than he had felt for years. He went back to his engine.
"Get up, Tito," he commanded his fireman; "you get in quickly or I'll help you up. Give me the oil can, will you?" he said. And Tito, trembling, his teeth dry between his lips, obeyed.
Fairfax extended his hand, meeting his companion's eyes for the first time, and said frankly—