Clem Frobisher and his chum waved farewell to the old folks and walked toward Beacon Street. The California evening was just closing down in all its swiftness.
“Ed, you go ’tend to the boat,” directed Clem, at the next corner. “Have her gas tank full, and make sure the batteries are working right. I’ll bring Tom.”
“Mebbe I’d better go along with you,” volunteered Ed.
“Maybe you’d better obey orders!” snapped Clem, his square-hewn face set in hard, determined lines. “Here! Take my coat with you!”
Peeling to his flannel shirt, he tossed his coat to Ed and turned away. The other looked after him with a sour grin.
“Want all the fun yourself, eh? All right, cap’n. You ain’t goin’ to shakeme!”
Ed Davis followed his partner—at a very respectful distance.
Clem strode along in the gathering dusk. Crossing Beacon Street, he headed for a large pool room, where he was pretty certain to find his quarry.
“So he didn’t come home for supper—hasn’t come home all day!” he muttered savagely. “Huh! Claims to be walking inmyshoes, does he? Huh!”
Clem turned in at the pool-room entrance, where a noisy phonograph was grinding out ragtime. About the rear of the place he saw a dozen young fellows grouped about a pool table, with a cloud of tobacco smoke hanging over them. With a curt nod to the proprietor, Clem strode back past the tables.
He soon picked out Tom Saunders, a big-boned, rather handsome fellow, three inches taller than Clem, and built along the same lines as the old skipper. But Tom’s strong, even powerful, face was marred by the undeniable touch of liquor, and a cigarette trailed smoke between his fingers. His companions laughed uproariously at his jokes, and gave him an acclamation, which he seemed to enjoy hugely.
“Clem Frobisher, by golly!”
As the cry went up from the assembled fellows, all of whom knew Clem, Tom Saunders turned and came forward,cue in hand, with a quick smile of delight. He stretched out a big hand toward Clem.
“Hello, cap’n! Say, you old chump, where you been hidin’? I——”
Under Clem’s steady, scornful gaze, his words of greeting faded. His hand fell to his side. He stared in blank amazement, while a portentous silence fell upon the others.
Then Clem made a sudden movement and plucked the cigarette from Tom’s fingers. He tossed it into the corner.
“Tom,” he said quietly, “I hear that you claim to be filling my shoes. How about it?”
“Hey?” Tom Saunders laid aside his billiard cue, still staring. “What you mean?”
“You heard me!” snarled Clem, watching the other with grim intentness.
“Say, what’s eatin’ you?” demanded Tom, in frowning wonder. “Ain’t we allus been mighty good friends? What the devil are you talkin’ about?”
“I’m talking about you,” said Clem, as he took a forward step. “Tom, you used to be a prince of a fellow. You’re some scrapping guy, too. Well, I been hearing a lot about you to-day. I hear, for one thing, that you’re doing a lot o’ talking about fillin’ Clem Frobisher’s shoes. I’m telling you right here that my shoes never left tracks in a saloon! Get that?”
“Say, what’s the matter with you?” said Tom, with a scowl, seeing beyond all doubt that his former hero was bent on trouble. “Do you want to start somethin’?”
“When I get ready. I’ll start it quick enough,” snapped Clem. “Ed Davis came over with me, and we’re going out in theSadieto-night, Tom, on a three-days’ trip—maybe longer. I want you to come along.”
Tom was puzzled by this invitation, and was also half mollified.
“Why, Clem, I’d like to—darned if I wouldn’t! But we got a big kelly game comin’ off to-night—dollar a corner——”
“And your dad’s house rent is owing,” said Clem quietly. “Will you come or not?”
“Don’t see how I can——”
Like a flash, Clem’s right shot out. It drove fair and square to the big fellow’s jaw. Tom went staggering back, and his friends surged forward at Clem with a snarl of rage. Gripping the pool table behind him, Tom Saunders turned on them hotly.
“Git back, you flatfoots! Keep out o’ this!”
“Bully for you, Tom!” said Clem approvingly. Then, as Tom turned, Clem was in, with a leap, and the row began.
And, as a water-front row, it was historic. Tom Saunders was no bluffer. He had size and brawn, he took punishment like a punching bag, and he had a kick like a mule. When he started in to fight he usually demolished everything in sight.
But from the start it was evident that he had no chance.
Clem Frobisher in action was a whirlwind. If he lacked size, he had a savage earnestness which won half his battles. He went into a scrap heart and soul and body, for, if he had to fight, he wanted no halfway measures. He was not a halfway man.
The battle was short, sharp, and furious. Foolishly, Tom drove for Clem’s face and jaw, but Clem fought otherwise. He was out for blood, figuratively speaking.
Taking a smack that brought a black eye, without a wince, he broke through the other’s guard and slammed his fists into Tom’s body time and again. Never had any one seen him go into a fight with such savage, deadly fury. Within thirty seconds, Tom Saunders was backed into a corner, mouthing oaths and lashing out half at random, while Clem’s terrible right and leftswings pounded over his heart and stomach.
Unexpectedly, Clem shot up a swift uppercut that rocked Tom’s head back. The other’s arms flew up, and Clem’s right bored into the solar plexus. It was almost a finishing blow. Tom emitted a gasp, and flung out his arms to save himself from going down. Clem swung down his arm for the knock-out.
At that instant, the rage of Tom’s followers broke all bounds. One of them came in, swinging a billiard cue, and aimed a blow that would have resulted in the penitentiary had it landed. But it did not land.
As the cue flashed up behind Clem, a lean figure came from nowhere, apparently, and placed a blow under the fellow’s ear that landed the would-be murderer under a table and kept him there. Then Clem heard his chum’s voice ringing behind him:
“You fellers better scatter quick! There’s two cops headed this way!”
Clem’s arm shot out. Tom Saunders groaned and collapsed. The others were hastily streaming out the back entrance; and Clem, gripping his late opponent’s collar, turned to Ed Davis with a panting gasp of relief.
“Good boy, Ed! Pick up his feet, now—move fast!”
And, as the police entered by the front door, they vanished into the alley at the rear, carrying the unconscious Tom Saunders between them.