Instantly the crowd divided into two factions. There was a howl of Mexican dissent against an American timekeeper as well as referee. Ned Grimm, self installed, but completely master of the ceremonies, compromised.
Healy and Lefty reached Stone together.
"For God's sake," gasped Healy, his low tones lost in the hubbub. "Get out of here! You couldn't have got into a mess with a worse man. Padilla used to be a toreador in Mexico City and, after that, a prize-fighter. He's strong as an ox. They call him 'El Toro.' Even if you got the best of him the mob 'ud knife the lot of us. I've just seen Castro. He won't interfere."
Stone shook him off impatiently. Healy's reasoning appealed to him dimly through his rage, as nothing personal, only the willingness, the desire to have him act as a coward and so run no chances of spoiling their combination. Healy was guarding the goose that was to lay the largest golden egg.
There was a ring around the dancing floor by now. A few men kept the crowd back. The girls had mounted on tables. Everywhere was the glitter of eyes, the stare of faces intent upon sport, the more brutal the better. Someone hustled a startled Chinaman through the ruck. The Oriental was clinging to a great gong that had been pressed into service from his kitchen. He was established, excited, jabbering, his slit-eyes glittering, beside the man chosen for timekeeper. Two chairs had appeared on the floor under the sputtery electrics, with
