The Chef laid a detaining hand on his shoulder, but MacTaggart swung round and caught him on the chin. The Chef went from his high chair like a ninepin. Shouting something in Gaelic, MacTaggart sprang on the table. Two croupiers tried to hold him back; but, using the rateau like a claymore, he rapped each on the head and with a leap was on the man with the red face.
“Turn me oot!” he shouted. “It wad tak a dizzen o’ the likes o’ you tae dae it.”
He had the big man down and was pounding him with both fists, when four of the lethargic lackeys threw themselves into the fray. MacTaggart saw red. He ran amuck. Right and left he struck in Berserker rage. His long arms were like flails before which men went down; croupiers, attendants, inspectors, all staggered back beneath his blows. A superintendent who ran up to see what was wrong, received a punch that landed him on his back. As MacTaggart burst through the doorway into the “Hall of Gloom,” the director of the games rushed up.
“Look out,” said the big Scotchman, “or as sure as my name’s Galloway MacTaggart I’ll fell ye tae the floor.”
The director did not look out and was duly downed. Then a group of lackeys, by a concerted rush, succeeded in mastering him. They knocked him down and hung onto his heaving arms and legs. They lifted him to carry him to the door. The MacTaggart was conquered.
But was he? No, not yet. From the other end of the “Hall of Light” a shrill yell suddenly split the air. It was something between the execration of a college football coach, and the war whoop of a red Indian. A little white-haired gentleman was covering the intervening space in great leaps and bounds. He roared and whirled his arms, his eyes aflame, his very hair bristling with fury. It was Mr. Gimp.
The attendants released MacTaggart, and turned to face this new foe. The fight began all over again.
It was Homeric, for Mr. Gimp had once been a bantam champion of the ring. There were bloody noses and broken teeth; there were curses and cries of pain; there were black eyes and bruised ribs before the indomitable two, overwhelmed by numbers, were carried to the door. The fray had lasted a quarter of an hour.
“Weel,” said MacTaggart that night as they sat in Quinto’s, “I’m thinkin’, Gimpy, auld man, we’ve lost oor tickets. We’ll no’ daur show oor faces in that place ony mair.”
“No,” said Mr. Gimp, “the spell’s broken at last. I’m a free man. To-morrow I’m off to the land where the handshake’s warmer.”