With a quick movement Phil threw his body over the table, catching the little fellow smartly by the neck-cloth and shirt in a grip that there was no gainsaying. By the sheer power of his right hand and arm, he pulled the astonished Ginger––before his more astonished partners––right across the table, planting him on his feet in front of him.
The little man gasped for breath and struggled, but finding his struggling merely meant more strangling, he commenced to feel at his hip as if for a gun.
Phil struck him on the side of the head, sending him staggering against the wall. As Ginger recovered, Phil held his spurs under the man’s nose and jingled them.
“I guess you know these?”
The fellow’s narrow eyes opened wide. He let out a guttural sound and sprang for the door. Phil shot after him. But the little one’s speed was accelerated by his fear. Phil’s boot was all that reached him and it did its work uncommonly well. A nicely planted kick, just when he reached the door-step, sent Ginger in the air and seated him on the plank sidewalk. He jumped 121 up almost before he touched the boards and tore down the road as if the devil himself were behind him.
Brenchfield, who had been a silent spectator of what had taken place, came into the main room of the restaurant, where a crowd of low whites and curious Chinese had gathered.
“Look here, young man!––you don’t want to be doing much of that in this town or you’ll find yourself locked up.”
Phil shook his spurs in the Mayor’s face.
“And you don’t want to be doing much of this, or you’ll find yourself my next cell neighbour.”
The Mayor had no idea how far his opponent was prepared to go, and evidently afraid to risk a scene, he turned his back on Phil with an oath.