Part 19 (1/2)

”What has Jim to do with it?” repeated Nash sneeringly. ”Why, you lobster, he has everything to do with it. He's _it_! What's your head made of, anyway? A block out of the oak walls of old England, I suppose.”

Rayton averted his face.

”Do you mean that Jim has anything to do with the marks on those cards?”

he asked, in a faint and unsteady voice.

”You lobster! He marks them, and he deals them!” cried Nash.

Rayton faced him.

”You are a liar,” he said quietly. ”Not only that, but you are a bounder. Better whip up your nag and drive away, or I'll be tempted to pull you out onto the road and give you what you need. You are a disgrace to this settlement.” He stepped back to the edge of the road.

”Drive along, fat head,” he commanded.

But Nash did not drive along. He had a great opinion of himself--of his physical as well as his mental powers. He hung the reins on the dashboard.

”Do you mean that?” he asked. ”Are you trying to insult me? Or are you drunk?”

”I am not drunk. Yes, I am trying to insult you. It is rather a difficult thing to do, I know.”

”Steady, Champion!” cried Nash to his nodding horse. Then he jumped over the wheel, threw aside his hat and overcoat, and plunged at Rayton, with his fists flying. He smote the air. He flailed the sunlight. He punched holes in the out of doors. At last he encountered something hard--not with his fist, however, but with an angle of his face. With a futile sprawl, he measured his considerable length in the mud and slush of the highway. So he lay for a little while, one leg flapping, then scrambled slowly to his feet. He gazed around in a dazed way, and at last rested his glance upon Rayton.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”PLUNGED AT RAYTON, WITH HIS FISTS FLYING”]

”See here!” he exclaimed; ”that--that's no way to do! Can't you fight fair? What did you hit me with?”

The Englishman lifted his right fist, and pointed at it with the index finger of his left hand.

”That is what I hit you with,” he said in matter-of-fact tones. ”But if you don't think that fair, I'll land my left next time.”

”Don't trouble,” replied Nash. ”I'm no match for a professional prize fighter. That's not my line.”

”Oh, cheer up! We've just begun.”

”I've finished.”

”In that case you can take back what you said about Jim Harley.”

”What did I say?” asked the doctor, making a furtive step toward his trap.

Rayton advanced. ”Quick!” he cried. ”Call yourself a liar, or I'll try another prod at you!”

”Leave me alone. D--n you! I'll have the law on you for this. Keep off!

Mind what you're about. Keep your distance, I say. Yes, yes! You're right. I'm a liar. _I'm a liar!_”

He jumped into his buggy, wakened Champion with a cut of the whip, and drove away at a gallop, leaving his hat and overcoat on the side of the road. For a minute Rayton stood and gazed after the bouncing vehicle.

Then he picked up the hat and coat, and placed them on the top rail of the fence.

”That is the worst thing I ever saw in the way of a doctor,” he said.