Pink Swede staggered sullenly behind, his heavy muscled pink torso stripped to the waist. The short figure of Old Man Veldmann stood swaying by the first table, his feet spread wide apart.
"Ye—dirty yellow rats, ye shriveled, miscarried spawn of black wenches, vamoose and make room for white men!" the fog-horn voice roared through the wicked saw-mouth. He spat on the sidewalk dangerously near the diners, swept the glasses off the near table, and took the panama from the head of a native, hurling it high up into a palm-tree, where it rested, ludicrously outlined against the starry sky.
A knife flashed, but MacAllister, who had swiftly glided forward from his place, knocked it from the insulted one's hand with a blow on the wrist.
"Ye little pint-pot, coffee-coloured shrimp!" roared the hoary old sinner, but MacAllister's hand was over his mouth, and, awed as usual by the superior coolness of their leader, they were hustled out of the courtyard before the angrily-chattering diners could attack them, Pushbutton Pete effectively guarding the rear of the retreat.
With a quick order to Pete to herd the two recalcitrants, MacAllister re-entered and hurried over to the table in the corner. It was growing late and the diners were beginning to leave, lazily sauntering away in groups of twos or threes. Phil was riveted to the table top, deep in feverish slumber, and the gambler and the girl had difficulty in getting him to his feet and steering him past the loungers, who still remained to sip what relief and forlorn pleasure they could from the dregs of the evening.
