But she belonged to the Swede’s chief runner, his number one bouncer, as ugly a brute as ever thumped a drunken sailor.  The bully objected, with a deal of obscene threatening, to my fancied raiding of his property.  We had it out with bare knuckles in the Swede’s big back room, with all the little tables pushed against the wall to make fighting space, and the toughest crowd in San Francisco standing by to see fair play.  I was the younger, and as hard as nails, he was soft and rotten with evil living, so I thrashed him soundly enough in five rounds.

After he had taken the count, I turned away and commenced to pull my shirt on over my head.  I heard a sharp curse, a yell of pain, and the clatter of steel upon the floor.  When my head emerged, I beheld my late antagonist slinking away before the threatening figure of the man with the scar.  The bully’s right arm dangled by his side, limp and broken, and a sheath-knife was lying on the floor, at the big man’s feet.  The sight gave me a rather sick feeling at the pit of the stomach, for I realized I had narrowly escaped being knifed.

The scar-faced man would not listen to my thanks.  He bestowed upon me a cool, bracing glance, and remarked, “You must never take your eyes off one of that breed!” Then he resumed his seat at a table in the far corner of the room, and quite plainly dismissed the incident from his mind.

Indeed, the house as speedily dismissed the incident from Its collective mind.  A fist fight or a knifing was but a momentary diversion in the Swede’s place.  Five minutes after he left the room, the whipped bully left the establishment, his one good hand carrying 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?”