Part 10 (1/2)
CHAPTER VIII
The music stopped at the end of the waltz, leaving Billy and Saxon at the big entrance doorway of the ballroom. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, and they were promenading on to find seats, when Charley Long, evidently just arrived, thrust his way in front of them.
”So you're the b.u.t.tinsky, eh?” he demanded, his face malignant with pa.s.sion and menace.
”Who?--me?” Billy queried gently. ”Some mistake, sport. I never b.u.t.t in.”
”You're goin' to get your head beaten off if you don't make yourself scarce pretty lively.”
”I wouldn't want that to happen for the world,” Billy drawled. ”Come on, Saxon. This neighborhood's unhealthy for us.”
He started to go on with her, but Long thrust in front again.
”You're too fresh to keep, young fellow,” he snarled. ”You need saltin'
down. D'ye get me?”
Billy scratched his head, on his face exaggerated puzzlement.
”No, I don't get you,” he said. ”Now just what was it you said?”
But the big blacksmith turned contemptuously away from him to Saxon.
”Come here, you. Let's see your program.”
”Do you want to dance with him?” Billy asked.
She shook her head.
”Sorry, sport, nothin' doin',” Billy said, again making to start on.
For the third time the blacksmith blocked the way.
”Get off your foot,” said Billy. ”You're standin' on it.”
Long all but sprang upon him, his hands clenched, one arm just starting back for the punch while at the same instant shoulders and chest were coming forward. But he restrained himself at sight of Billy's unstartled body and cold and cloudy eyes. He had made no move of mind or muscle.
It was as if he were unaware of the threatened attack. All of which const.i.tuted a new thing in Long's experience.
”Maybe you don't know who I am,” he bullied.
”Yep, I do,” Billy answered airily. ”You're a record-breaker at rough-housin'.” (Here Long's face showed pleasure.) ”You ought to have the Police Gazette diamond belt for rough-housin' baby buggies'. I guess there ain't a one you're afraid to tackle.”
”Leave 'm alone, Charley,” advised one of the young men who had crowded about them. ”He's Bill Roberts, the fighter. You know'm. Big Bill.”
”I don't care if he's Jim Jeffries. He can't b.u.t.t in on me this way.”
Nevertheless it was noticeable, even to Saxon, that the fire had gone out of his fierceness. Billy's name seemed to have a quieting effect on obstreperous males.
”Do you know him?” Billy asked her.
She signified yes with her eyes, though it seemed she must cry out a thousand things against this man who so steadfastly persecuted her.