Helen glanced over her shoulder to find that the smiles of the throng were gone and that its eyes were bent on some scene in the street, with an eager interest she had never seen mirrored before.  Simultaneously Glenister spoke: 

“Come away from here.”

With the quickened eye of experience he foresaw trouble and tried to drag her on, but she shook off his grasp impatiently, and, turning, gazed absorbed at the spectacle which unfolded itself before her.  Although not comprehending the play of events, she felt vaguely the quick approach of some crisis, yet was unprepared for the swiftness with which it came.

Her eyes had leaped to the figures of two men in the street from whom the rest had separated like oil from water.  One was slim and well dressed; the other bulky, mackinawed, and lowering of feature.  It was the smaller who spoke, and for a moment she misjudged his bloodshot eyes and swaying carriage to be the result of alcohol, until she saw that he was racked with fury.

“Make good, I tell you, quick!  Give me that bill of sale, you—.”

The unkempt man swung on his heel with a growl and walked away, his course leading him towards Glenister and the girl.  With two strides he was abreast of them; then, detecting the flashing movement of the other, he whirled like a wild animal.  His voice had the snarl of a beast in it.

“Ye had to have it, didn’t ye?  Well, there!”

The actions of both men were quick as light, yet to the girl’s taut senses they seemed theatrical and deliberate.  Into her mind was seared forever the memory of that second, as though the shutter of a camera had snapped, impressing upon her brain the scene, sharp, clear-cut, and vivid.  The shaggy back of the large man almost brushing her, the rage-drunken, white shirted man in the derby hat, the crowd sweeping backward like rushes before a blast, men with arms flexed and feet raised in flight, the glaring yellow sign of the “Gold Belt Dance Hall” across the way—­these were stamped upon her retina, and then she was jerked violently backward, two strong arms crushed her down upon her knees against the wall, and she was smothered in the arms of Roy Glenister.

“My God!  Don’t move!  We’re in line!”

He crouched over her, his cheek against her hair, his weight forcing her down into the smallest compass, his arms about her, his body forming a living shield against the flying bullets.  Over them the big man stood, and the sustained roar of his gun was deafening.  In an instant they heard the thud and felt the jar of lead in the thin boards against which they huddled.  Again the report echoed above their heads, and they saw the slender man in the street drop his weapon and spin half round as though hit with some heavy hand.  He uttered a cry and, stooping for his gun, plunged forward, burying his face in the sand.