the wind. LeNoir pursued him a short way and returned raging.

Yankee Jim, or Yankee, as he was called for short, came back to
Macdonald Dubh's side, and whispering to the other Highlanders, "Keep
your backs clear," sat up coolly on the counter. The fight was sure to
come and there were seven to one against them in the room. If he could
only gain time. Every minute was precious. It would take the boy fifteen
minutes to run the two miles to camp. It would be half an hour before
the rest of the Glengarry men could arrive, and much fighting may be
done in that time. He must avert attention from Macdonald Dubh, who was
waiting to cram LeNoir's insult down his throat. Yankee Jim had not
only all the cool courage but also the shrewd, calculating spirit of
his race. He was ready to fight, and if need be against odds, but he
preferred to fight on as even terms as possible.

Soon LeNoir came back, wild with fury, and yelling curses at the top of
his voice. He hurled himself into the room, the crowd falling back from
him on either hand.

"Hola!" he yelled, "Sacre bleu!" He took two quick steps, and springing
up into the air he kicked the stovepipe that ran along some seven feet
above the floor.

"Purty good kicking," called out Yankee, sliding down from his seat.
"Used to kick some myself. Excuse ME." He stood for a moment looking up
at the stovepipe, then without apparent effort he sprang into the air,
shot up his long legs, and knocked the stovepipe with a bang against the
ceiling. There was a shout of admiration.

"My damages," he said to Pat Murphy, who stood behind the counter. "Good