She shrank
back, gave a low moan, and clutched my coat. I tore her hand loose and
turned away in time to floor the Boss by an easy blow on his left ear.
The fight was finished.
We wasted no time but descended the stairs and passed out through the
court into the street. There were signs of life in the gloomy court,
though no one spoke or molested us; the street was dead silent. Mick's
arms and shoulders were a mass of bruises from the lead pipe, but his
face was clear. Twinetoes was all right, he said, but craving for a
wet. I alone showed evidence of the struggle; my eye was unsightly and
painful, and my left wrist was slightly sprained. The girl sobbed
quietly. "Oh! Oh!" she cried repeatedly, "whatever's to become of me!"
She irritated me. "Shut up!" I said at last, "_You_'ll be all right."
She snuffled unceasingly. I looked across at Mick--she walked between
us, Twinetoes on my right--and at once I saw the outcome of it all.
"Stop it, blast you!" I shook her shoulder. "My pal is the best,
biggest fool that ever raised a fist. He's silly enough for anything
decent," and then, with the voice of conviction born of absolute
certainty of mind: "He'll never chuck you over.
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