He tried to see if Wilkinson was there, and did not think he was, but could not be certain.  The foreman’s manner hinted that he meant to protect the fellow.

“You’ll go now!  D’you want me to put you out?”

For a moment Charnock stood still, and then suddenly lost his self-control in a fit of savage rage.  He had suffered at the hands of the brute, who was trying to prevent his finding Wilkinson.  But he did not mean to be baulked, and stepped forward with his fists clenched.

He could not remember who struck first, but got a blow on his body that made him gasp.  Then he felt his knuckles jar on his antagonist’s face, and the next moment staggered and fell against a bench that upset with a crash.  He recovered, bent from the waist to dodge a blow that would have felled him, and struck over the other’s arm.

The foreman reeled, but did not fall, and closed with Charnock, who could not get away because of the table.  The latter felt his antagonist’s strength, and there was no room for skill.  When he tried to break loose his feet struck the upset bench, and the wall was close by.  Breathing hard, they rocked to and fro in a furious grapple, striking when a hand could be loosed, and then fell apart, exhausted.  Both were bleeding but determined, for deep-rooted dislike had suddenly changed to overpowering hate.  Moreover Charnock knew the foreman was Wilkinson’s friend, and half suspected him of a share in the plot.

In the meantime the men gathered round, scarcely giving the fighters room, and some, crowded off the floor, mounted the table.  Nobody, however, interfered.  They had no part in the quarrel and did not know what it was about, but while a number sympathized with Charnock, it was dangerous to offend their boss.

Charnock resumed the attack, advancing with a savage rush.  The foreman gave ground, but stretched out his foot and Charnock, tripping over it, plunged forward and fell among the legs of the nearest men.  They crowded back, and as he got up awkwardly the foreman seized a heavy billet of cordwood and flung it at his head.  The billet struck his shoulder, but he was on his feet, his face set and white, and his eyes vindictively hard.  It was a foul blow, but there are few rules to hamper men who fight in a Western construction camp, and Charnock thought his antagonist meant to use a stove-iron that lay close by.  Feinting at the other, he dodged and seized a pick-handle he had noticed on the floor.  He was just in time, for the foreman struck at him with the iron.  It clashed upon the pick-handle, but Charnock got the next blow home and the foreman fell upon the table, on which Charnock pinned him down.  Then getting his right arm loose, he struck with blind fury.

He was seized from behind, and while he struggled to get loose somebody gasped:  “That’s enough!  Do you want to kill the man?”

“Yes,” said Charnock hoarsely.  “Let me go!”