"Much obliged—to Mr. Jerry Durand. Tell him for me that maybe I'll meet up with him again sometime—and hand him my thanks personal for this first-class wallopin'." From the bruised, bleeding face there beamed again the smile indomitable, the grin still gay and winning. Physically he had been badly beaten, but in spirit he was still the man on horseback.
Presently he eased himself into a taxi as comfortably as he could.
"Home, James," he said jauntily.
"Where?" asked the driver.
"The nearest hospital," explained Clay. "I'm goin' to let the doctors worry over me for a while. Much obliged to both of you gentlemen. I always did like the Irish. Friend Jerry is an exception."
The officers watched the cab disappear. The sergeant spoke the comment that was in the mind of them both.
"He's the best single-barreled sport that iver I met in this man's town. Not a whimper out of the guy and him mauled to a pulp. Game as they come. Did youse see that spark o' the divvle in his eye, and him not fit to crawl into the cab?"
"Did I see it? I did that. If iver they meet man to man, him and
Jerry, it'll be wan grand little fight."
"Jerry's the best rough-and-tumble fighter on the island."
"Wan av the best. I wouldn't put him first till after him and this guy had met alone in a locked room. S'long, Mike."
"S'long, Tim. No report on this rough-house, mind yuh."