Kerr-Anderson isn’t at all sure what exactly happened then. All he remembers is that Puce’s huge face had suddenly gone crimson, which made his hair stand out shockingly white; and that Puce had Quillier’s fragile throat between his hands; and that Puce was roaring and spitting into Quillier’s blackening face.
“Say, listen, you Quillier! You’d scare me like that, would you! You’d scare me with a chicken’s trick like that, would you! And you’d strangle me, eh? You swine, you Sir Cyril Quillier you, right here’s where the strangling comes in, and it’s me that’s going to do it——”
Kerr-Anderson hit out and yelled. Quillier was helpless with his one arm, the giant’s grip on his throat. The woman who kept the inn had hysterics. Puce roared blasphemies. Quillier was doubled back over the small table, Puce on top of him, tightening his death-hold. Kerr-Anderson hit, kicked, bit, yelled.
Suddenly there were shouts from all around.
“For God’s sake, quick!” sobbed Kerr-Anderson. “He’s almost killed him.”
“Aw, what the hell!” roared Puce.
The men in dark uniforms had all they could do to drag him away from that little, lean, blackened, unconscious thing. Then they manacled Puce. Puce looked sheepish, and grinned at Kerr-Anderson.
Two of the six men in dark uniforms helped to revive Quillier.
“Drinks,” gasped Kerr-Anderson to the woman who kept the inn.
“Say, give me one,” begged the gentleman from America. Huge, helpless, manacled, he stood sheepishly among his uniformed captors. Kerr-Anderson stared at them. Quillier was reviving.