his duffle. The Knitting Swede would have no whipped bouncer in his
employ.

That was a purple night for me. I was the victor, and the fruits of
the victory were very sweet. The Jewess murmured adoring flatteries in
my ear. The others--that crowd of rough, tough men--clapped me
respectfully upon the back, felt gingerly of my biceps, and swore
loudly and luridly I was the best man in the port. I agreed with
them--and set up the drinks, again and again. Oh, I was a great man
that night! The house caroused at my expense till late.

Only my silent friend in the corner declined to take part in the
merry-making. The man with the scar sat alone, drinking nothing, and
regarding with cool and visible contempt the dizzy gyrations of the
roughs who were swilling away the money I had worked for. But his open
contempt of them was not resented, even at the height of the orgy.
They were hard cases, rough, tough fighting men, but they gave the big
fellow plenty of sea-room. No ruffling or swaggering in his direction.
No gibes or practical jokes. The bludgeon-like wit of the house very
carefully passed him by. For he was so plainly a desperate man.

"He's a bad one," whispered the Jewess to me, lifting an eye towards
the lonely table. "He has the house bluffed. Bet you the Swede
doesn't try any of his tricks with him. He's a real bad one. Wonder
who he is?"

I openly admired the man. I'd have given my soul almost to own his
manner. The careless yet grand air of the man, the something about him
that lifted him above the rest of us--aye, he was the real hero, he was
the sort of hard case I wanted to be.