There were eddies
of turbulent spirits. A crowd in America is unlike any other. It is
full of meanness, rowdyism, petty malice. A big fellow, smelling of
bad whisky, shouldered Killigrew aside, roughly. Killigrew's Irish
blood flamed.
"Here! Look where you're going!" he cried.
The man reached back and jammed Killigrew's hat down over his eyes.
Killigrew stumbled and fell, and Crawford and Forbes surged to his
rescue from the trampling feet. Thomas, however, caught the ruffian's
right wrist, jammed it scientifically against the man's chest, took him
by the throat and bore him back, savagely and relentlessly. The crowd,
packed as it was, gave ground. With an oath the man struck. Thomas
struck back, accurately. Instantly the circle widened. A fight
outside was always more interesting than one inside the ropes. A blow
ripped open Thomas' shirt. It became a slam-bang affair. Thomas
knocked his man down just as a burly policeman arrived. Naturally, he
caught hold of Thomas and called for assistance. The wrong man first
is the invariable rule of the New York police.
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