“Skookum!” he cried furiously. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Brain this fool with the lantern, can’t you?”
But his henchman, Skookum, had already perceived how the fight was going and his discretion proved much greater than his valour. He dropped the lantern and darted out at the door. As good luck would have it, the lantern fell right-end up and, after wobbling precariously on its rim, sat upright in the corner, blinked, then continued to shed a fitful light over the scene.
Phil, with anger unabated, darted in on Brenchfield, smashing at him right and left. The latter tottered. Phil sprang in and clutched at his throat. Both went forcibly to the ground, with Brenchfield undermost. Phil gripped and squeezed and shook with almost ferocious brutality, until the Mayor’s struggles became less and less violent, and finally ceased. And after that, Phil’s grip did not relax, for that murderlust, which he had read 222 of and heard of but had never before understood, was on him.
Had it not been for a quiet, pleading voice and a little hand that slipped over his and along his fingers, pushing its way between his and the soft throat of his adversary, the sunlight would have gone out of his life for all time.
“Please, Phil,––please!” she cried. “Don’t! Phil––you would not kill him! You must not,––for my sake, for my sake! He isn’t worth it. Phil, Phil,––let him go!”
And the murderlust––as it had done so often before at the gentle but all powerful pleading of God’s women––shrank back, dwindled down, then faded into its native oblivion.
Phil’s fingers relaxed and he rose slowly, working his hands convulsively, then pushing his wet hair back from his forehead, as he looked first down at the gasping figure of his hated adversary and then in open-eyed amazement at Eileen.
“Thanks!” he said, very quietly.
“Why did you do that?” she said. “What has he done?”
For answer, Phil caught her by the arm and turned her about-face.