Phil had just missed. The boy crumpled up on the foul, evil-smelling fishnet in the corner.
The victor kicked him with his foot. "Damn him, I've sprained my thumb!"
"Yuh ain't got no kick comin' as I see," said the old fellow, "the young rooster was outweighed by forty pound, but he was game as a bantam."
Still he and the Pink Swede trussed the fallen none the less viciously for that.
The door opened and a tall stranger entered, as Phil began to stir in his bonds. He bent over the boy.
"The Chesterfield Kid! Hmmm, those classic features are messed up considerable."
Seeing the boy's eyes open, he turned on the trio, and with a well-dissembled arraignment ordered them to untie him.
They raised Phil, still rocking a little, and seated him on the one spavined chair. But his head cleared suddenly, and he was shrewd enough to note their suspiciously prompt and grinning obedience. He looked up at the new-comer.
"Some of your pretty work, MacAllister."
"That's gratitude for you," the stranger replied, "if I hadn't blown in just now, these gentlemen," indicating the three sarcastically, "would have shanghaied you."
"All very effectively staged, Mr. Belasco."
MacAllister pointed to the door, with a request to the others to "take the air." And again they promptly obeyed, Pete grumbling as they flung themselves on the sands a stone's-throw from the shack:
"What's the chief atter now, pennies from the kid?"
