Joe took my advice and rushed. Gahey struck out, but Joe imprisoned the striking arm, and drawing it towards him, he gripped hold of Gahey's body. Then, without any perceptible effort, he lifted Gahey over his head and held him there at arm's length for a few minutes. Afterwards he took him down as far as his chest.
"For God's sake don't throw me into the tins, Moleskin," cried Gahey.
"I don't want to dirty the tins," answered Joe. "Now I want to ask you a question. Who was right about the blankets last night?"
Gahey gave no answer. Joe threw him on the ground, went on top of him, and began knuckling his knees along Gahey's ribs.
"Who was right about the blankets last night?" asked Moleskin again.
"You were," said Gahey sulkily. Joe smiled and rose to his feet.
"That's a wee job finished," he said to me. "You could knock Gahey out, yourself, Flynn."
"Could ye, bedamned!" roared Gahey, dancing around me and making strange passes with his fist.
"Go on, Flynn, give it to him same as you did with Carroty in Greenock!" shouted Joe as he struggled with the shirt which he was pulling over his head. Gahey's lip was swollen, his left ear had been thickened, but otherwise he had not received a scratch in the fight with Moleskin, and he was now undoubtedly eager to try conclusions with me. As I have said, I was never averse to a stand-up fight, and though the exhibition which Hell-fire made against Joe filled me with profound respect for the man, I looked at him squarely between the eyes for a moment, and then with a few seasonable oaths I stripped to the waist, my blood rushing through my veins at the thought of the coming battle.