"When a fellow's attacked by a gang of thugs he doesn't pray for
boxing-gloves. He lets fly with a coupling-pin if that's what comes
handy."

Her eyes, glinting sparks of mischief, marveled at him with mock
reverence, but she knew in her heart that her mockery was a fraud. She did
admire him; admired him even while she disapproved the magnificent
lawlessness of him.

For Waring Ridgway looked every inch the indomitable fighter he was. He
stood six feet to the line, straight and strong, carrying just sufficient
bulk to temper his restless energy without impairing its power. Nor did
the face offer any shock of disappointment to the promise given by the
splendid figure. Salient-jawed and forceful, set with cool, flinty,
blue-gray eyes, no place for weakness could be found there. One might have
read a moral callousness, a colorblindness in points of rectitude, but
when the last word had been said, its masterful capability, remained the
outstanding impression.

"Am I out of the witness-box?" he presently asked, still leaning against
the mantel from which he had been watching her impersonally as an
intellectual entertainment.

"I think so."

"And the verdict?"

"You know what it ought to be," she accused.

"Fortunately, kisses go by favor, not by, merit."