There followed an interval of waiting that seemed interminable--an
interval during which Burke moved not at all, but stood like a
statue against the wall, his hat well down over his eyes, his hands
clenched at his sides. The voices of men drifted to and fro
through the howling night, but none came very near him.
It must have been nearly half-an-hour later that there arose a
sudden fierce uproar in the bar, and the silent watcher
straightened himself up sharply. The turmoil grew to a babel of
voices, and in a few moments two figures, struggling furiously,
appeared at the open door. They blundered out, locked together
like fighting beasts, and behind them the door crashed to, leaving
them in darkness.
Burke moved forward. "Kelly, is that you?"
Kelly's voice, uplifted in lurid anathema, answered him, and in a
couple of seconds Kelly himself lurched into him, nearly hurling
him backwards. "And is it yourself?" cried the Irishman. "Then
help me to hold the damned young scoundrel, for he's fighting like
the devils in hell! Here he is! Get hold of him!"
Burke took a silent hard grip upon the figure suddenly thrust at
him, and almost immediately the fighting ceased.
"Let me go!" a hoarse voice said.
"Hold him tight!" said Kelly. "I'm going to take a rest. Guy, you
young devil, what do you want to murder me for? I've never done
you a harm in my life.
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