www.freeclassicebooks.com

CHAPTER VIII. THE WRECK OF THE "HALFMOON"

INSTANTLY Barbara Harding looked into the face of the mucker she read her

danger. Why the man should hate her so she could not guess; but that he did

was evidenced by the malevolent expression of his surly countenance. For a

moment he stood glaring at her, and then he spoke.

"I'm wise to wot youse an' dat guy was chinnin' about," he growled, "an' I'm right

here to tell youse dat you don't wanta try an' put nothin' over on me, see? Youse

ain't a-goin' to double-cross Billy Byrne. I gotta good notion to han' youse wot's

comin' to you. If it hadn't been fer youse I wouldn't have been here now on dis

Gawd-forsaken wreck. Youse is de cause of all de trouble. Wot youse ought to get

is croaked an' den dere wouldn't be nothin' to bother any of us. You an' yer

bunch of kale, dey give me a swift pain. Fer half a cent I'd soak youse a wallop to

de solar plexus dat would put youse to sleep fer de long count, you--you--" but

here words failed Billy.

To his surprise the girl showed not the slightest indication of fear. Her head was

high, and her level gaze never wavered from his own eyes. Presently a sneer of

contempt curled her lip.

You coward!" she said quietly. "To insult and threaten a woman! You are nothing

but an insufferable bully, and a cowardly murderer. You murdered a man on the

Lotus whose little finger held more true manhood, bravery, and worth than the

whole of your great, hulking carcass. You are only fit to strike from behind, or

when your victim is unsuspecting, as you did Mr. Theriere that other day. Do you

think I fear a THING such as you--a beast without honor that kicks an

unconscious man in the face? I know that you can kill me. I know that you are

coward enough to do it because I am a defenseless woman; and though you may

kill me, you never can make me show fear for you. That is what you wish to do--

that is your idea of manliness. I had never imagined that such a thing as you

lived in the guise of man; but I have read you, Mr. Byrne, since I have had

occasion to notice you, and I know now that you are what is known in the great

cities as a mucker. The term never meant much to me before, but I see now that

it fits your kind perfectly, for in it is all the loathing and contempt that a real

man--a gentleman--must feel for such as you."

As she spoke Billy Byrne's eyes narrowed; but not with the cunning of

premeditated attack. He was thinking. For the first time in his life he was

thinking of how he appeared in the eyes of another. Never had any human being

told Billy Byrne thus coolly and succinctly what sort of person he seemed to

them. In the heat of anger men of his own stamp had applied vile epithets to him,

The Mucker