“Set ’em up in t’other alley,” he shouts; “don’t send ’em in so hard. Whoop! now you’re in the game, old man; back you go,” with which the breezy reveler gives Aroun Scutari another whirl, which sends him halfway back again, a collision with an elderly woman bringing his mad dance to a sudden stop, as both of them fall over, and her startled screams add to the clamor.
No sooner has Aleck entered the affair than he has his hands full.
His action in seizing upon the sacred person of the Turk was equivalent to throwing down the gauntlet, and the Canadian is immediately set upon by a number of worthies whose itching palms have been crossed with the gold that makes them slaves to Scutari.
He is in his element, this man of Montreal: not that such a brawl is to his liking, but the object for which he strives is a sacred one to a gentleman—the defense of innocence.
They are four to one, and ugly customers at that. Aleck is no Admirable Crichton, and if left to himself, no matter how gallant his attack, he must presently go down before the numbers opposed to him.
The crowd seems paralyzed; in an affair of this kind, men usually believe it none of their business, but stand by and let those interested fight it out.
Through the fringe of spectators, however, someone pushes a way. It is Wycherley in search of his friend, and upon seeing Aleck so beset he throws himself into the breach, which evens up the game a little. More help comes from an unexpected quarter. The half-intoxicated young fellow, whose muscular ability sent Scutari flying on the back trip, has evidently been spoiling for a fight. He picks out his man and faces him with the air of a scientific boxer, dazzles the eyes of the Oriental by the rapid use of his hands, and rains such a shower of blows upon him that the fellow, believing him a wizard with the six arms of a Chinese god, bellows for mercy.
The action has been swift, and the field won. Aroun Scutari reads his defeat in the signs so apparent, and wisely steals away. His minions sneak after him. Aleck turns to the woman who still holds the limp figure of Dorothy. It galls him to see one arm thrown about the neck of the treacherous woman, and Dorothy’s head resting on her shoulder.
“I don’t know what to say to you, madam. Your duplicity, your double-dealing, is known to me. I shall take the first opportunity to disclose it to your victim. Meantime you must assist me in getting her home—do you hear?”
She bows her head. This double break in her plans has taken all the confidence out of the woman who could plot against her best friend. She now fears the result—for if Samson Cereal is once aroused against her she may well tremble for her fate.