The Yukon Trail | Page 6

helpless
opponent. The agony of the man underneath found expression only in
the drumming heels that beat a tattoo on the floor. The spasmodic feet
were shod in Oxford tans of an ultra-fashionable cut. No doubt the
owner of the smart footwear had been pulled down as he was escaping
to shout the alarm.
The runner hurdled the two in his stride and plunged straight at the
struggling tangle. He caught one man by the shoulders from behind and
flung him back. He struck hard, smashing blows as he fought his way
to the heart of the mêlée. Heavy-fisted miners with corded muscles
landed upon his face and head and neck. The strange excitement of the
battle lust surged through his veins. He did not care a straw for the
odds.
The sudden attack of Elliot had opened the pack. The man battling
against a dozen was Colby Macdonald. The very number of his foes
had saved him so far from being rushed overboard or trampled down.
In their desire to get at him they hindered each other, struck blows that
found the wrong mark. His coat and shirt were in rags. He was bruised
and battered and bleeding from the chest up. But he was still slogging
hard.
They had him pressed to the rail. A huge miner, head down, had his
arms around the waist of the Scotchman and was trying to throw him
overboard. Macdonald lashed out and landed flush upon the cheek of a
man attempting to brain him with a billet of wood. He hammered home
a short-arm jolt against the ear of the giant who was giving him the
bear grip.
The big miner grunted, but hung on like a football tackler. With a jerk

he raised Macdonald from the floor just as three or four others rushed
him again. The rail gave way, splintered like kindling wood. The
Scotchman and the man at grips with him went over the side together.
Clear and loud rang the voice of Elliot. "Man overboard!"
The wheelsman had known for some minutes that there was trouble
afoot. He signaled to the engine room to reverse and blew short, sharp
shrieks of warning. Already deckhands and officers, scantily clad, were
appearing from fore and aft.
"Men overboard--two of 'em!" explained Elliot in a shout from the boat
which he was trying to lower.
The first mate and another man ran to help him. The three of them
lowered and manned the boat. Gordon sat in the bow and gave
directions while the other two put their backs into the stroke. Quite
casually Elliot noticed that the man in the waist had a purple bruise on
his left cheek bone. The young man himself had put it there not three
minutes since.
Across the water came a call for help. "I'm sinking--hurry!"
The other man in the river was a dozen yards from the one in distress.
With strong, swift, overhand strokes he shot through the water.
"All right," he called presently. "I've got him."
The oarsmen drew alongside the swimmer. With one hand Macdonald
caught hold of the edge of the boat. The other clutched the rescued man
by the hair of his head.
"Look out. You're drowning him," the mate warned.
"Am I?" Macdonald glanced with mild interest at the head that had
been until that moment submerged. "Shows how absent-minded a man
gets. I was thinking about how he tried to drown me, I expect."
They dragged the miner aboard.

"Go ahead. I'll swim down," Macdonald ordered.
"Better come aboard," advised the mate.
"No. I'm all right."
The Scotchman pushed himself back from the boat and fell into an easy
stroke. Nevertheless, there was power in it, for he reached the Hannah
before the rescued miner had been helped to the deck.
A dozen passengers, crowded on the lower deck, pushed forward
eagerly to see. Among them was Selfridge, his shirt and collar torn
loose at the neck and his immaculate checked suit dusty and disheveled.
He was wearing a pair of up-to-date Oxford tans.
The Scotch-Canadian shook himself like a Newfoundland dog. He
looked around with sardonic amusement, a grin on his swollen and
disfigured face.
"Quite a pleasant welcome home," he said ironically, his cold eyes
fixed on a face that looked as if it might have been kicked by a healthy
mule. "Eh, Trelawney?"
The Cornishman glared at him, and turned away with a low, savage
oath.
"Are you hurt, Mr. Macdonald?" asked the captain.
"Hurt! Not at all, Captain. I cut myself while I was shaving this
morning--just a scratch," was the ironic answer.
"There's been some dirty work going on. I'll see the men are punished,
sir."
"Forget it, Captain. I'll attend to that little matter." His jaunty, almost
insolent glance made the