After dinner there were two dances in the pavilion, and then the band led the way to the race track for the games.  The dancers followed, and all through the grounds the picnic parties left their tables to join in.  Five thousand packed the grassy slopes of the amphitheater and swarmed inside the race track.  Here, first of the events, the men were lining up for a tug of war.  The contest was between the Oakland Bricklayers and the San Francisco Bricklayers, and the picked braves, huge and heavy, were taking their positions along the rope.  They kicked heel-holds in the soft earth, rubbed their hands with the soil from underfoot, and laughed and joked with the crowd that surged about them.

The judges and watchers struggled vainly to keep back this crowd of relatives and friends.  The Celtic blood was up, and the Celtic faction spirit ran high.  The air was filled with cries of cheer, advice, warning, and threat.  Many elected to leave the side of their own team and go to the side of the other team with the intention of circumventing foul play.  There were as many women as men among the jostling supporters.  The dust from the trampling, scuffling feet rose in the air, and Mary gasped and coughed and begged Bert to take her away.  But he, the imp in him elated with the prospect of trouble, insisted on urging in closer.  Saxon clung to Billy, who slowly and methodically elbowed and shouldered a way for her.

“No place for a girl,” he grumbled, looking down at her with a masked expression of absent-mindedness, while his elbow powerfully crushed on the ribs of a big Irishman who gave room.  “Things’ll break loose when they start pullin’.  They’s been too much drink, an’ you know what the Micks are for a rough house.”

Saxon was very much out of place among these large-bodied men and women.  She seemed very small and childlike, delicate and fragile, a creature from another race.  Only Billy’s skilled bulk and muscle saved her.  He was continually glancing from face to face of the women and always returning to study her face, nor was she unaware of the contrast he was making.

Some excitement occurred a score of feet away from them, and to the sound of exclamations and blows a surge ran through the crowd.  A large man, wedged sidewise in the jam, was shoved against Saxon, crushing her closely against Billy, who reached across to the man’s shoulder with a massive thrust that was not so slow as usual.  An involuntary grunt came from the victim, who turned his head, showing sun-reddened blond skin and unmistakable angry Irish eyes.

“What’s eatin’ yeh?” he snarled.

“Get off your foot; you’re standin’ on it,” was Billy’s contemptuous reply, emphasized by an increase of thrust.

The Irishman grunted again and made a frantic struggle to twist his body around, but the wedging bodies on either side held him in a vise.

“I’ll break yer ugly face for yeh in a minute,” he announced in wrath-thick tones.

Then his own face underwent transformation.  The snarl left the lips, and the angry eyes grew genial.

“An’ sure an’ it’s yerself,” he said.  “I didn’t know it was yeh a-shovin’.  I seen yeh lick the Terrible Swede, if yeh was robbed on the decision.”

“No, you didn’t, Bo,” Billy answered pleasantly.  “You saw me take a good beatin’ that night.  The decision was all right.”

The Irishman was now beaming.  He had endeavored to pay a compliment with a lie, and the prompt repudiation of the lie served only to increase his hero-worship.

“Sure, an’ a bad beatin’ it was,” he acknowledged, “but yeh showed the grit of a bunch of wildcats.  Soon as I can get me arm free I’m goin’ to shake yeh by the hand an’ help yeh aise yer young lady.”

Frustrated in the struggle to get the crowd back, the referee fired his revolver in the air, and the tug-of-war was on.  Pandemonium broke loose.  Saxon, protected by the two big men, was near enough to the front to see much that ensued.  The men on the rope pulled and strained till their faces were red with effort and their joints crackled.  The rope was new, and, as their hands slipped, their wives and daughters sprang in, scooping up the earth in double handfuls and pouring it on the rope and the hands of their men to give them better grip.

A stout, middle-aged woman, carried beyond herself by the passion of the contest, seized the rope and pulled beside her husband, encouraged him with loud cries.  A watcher from the opposing team dragged her screaming away and was dropped like a steer by an ear-blow from a partisan from the woman’s team.  He, in turn, went down, and brawny women joined with their men in the battle.  Vainly the judges and watchers begged, pleaded, yelled, and swung with their fists.  Men, as well as women, were springing in to the rope and pulling.  No longer was it team against team, but all Oakland against all San Francisco, festooned with a free-for-all fight.  Hands overlaid hands two and three deep in the struggle to grasp the rope.  And hands that found no holds, doubled into bunches of knuckles that impacted on the jaws of the watchers who strove to tear hand-holds from the rope.

Bert yelped with joy, while Mary clung to him, mad with fear.  Close to the rope the fighters were going down and being trampled.  The dust arose in clouds, while from beyond, all around, unable to get into the battle, could be heard the shrill and impotent rage-screams and rage-yells of women and men.

“Dirty work, dirty work,” Billy muttered over and over; and, though he saw much that occurred, assisted by the friendly Irishman he was coolly and safely working Saxon back out of the melee.

At last the break came.  The losing team, accompanied by its host of volunteers, was dragged in a rush over the ground and disappeared under the avalanche of battling forms of the onlookers.

Leaving Saxon under the protection of the Irishman in an outer eddy of calm, Billy plunged back into the mix-up.  Several minutes later he emerged with the missing couple ­Bert bleeding from a blow on the ear, but hilarious, and Mary rumpled and hysterical.

“This ain’t sport,” she kept repeating.  “It’s a shame, a dirty shame.”

“We got to get outa this,” Billy said.  “The fun’s only commenced.”

“Aw, wait,” Bert begged.  “It’s worth eight dollars.  It’s cheap at any price.  I ain’t seen so many black eyes and bloody noses in a month of Sundays.”

“Well, go on back an’ enjoy yourself,” Billy commended.  “I’ll take the girls up there on the side hill where we can look on.  But I won’t give much for your good looks if some of them Micks lands on you.”

The trouble was over in an amazingly short time, for from the judges’ stand beside the track the announcer was bellowing the start of the boys’ foot-race; and Bert, disappointed, joined Billy and the two girls on the hillside looking down upon the track.

There were boys’ races and girls’ races, races of young women and old women, of fat men and fat women, sack races and three-legged races, and the contestants strove around the small track through a Bedlam of cheering supporters.  The tug-of-war was already forgotten, and good nature reigned again.

Five young men toed the mark, crouching with fingertips to the ground and waiting the starter’s revolver-shot.  Three were in their stocking-feet, and the remaining two wore spiked running-shoes.

“Young men’s race,” Bert read from the program.  “An’ only one prize ­twenty-five dollars.  See the red-head with the spikes ­the one next to the outside.  San Francisco’s set on him winning.  He’s their crack, an’ there’s a lot of bets up.”

“Who’s goin’ to win?” Mary deferred to Billy’s superior athletic knowledge.

“How can I tell!” he answered.  “I never saw any of ’em before.  But they all look good to me.  May the best one win, that’s all.”

The revolver was fired, and the five runners were off and away.  Three were outdistanced at the start.  Redhead led, with a black-haired young man at his shoulder, and it was plain that the race lay between these two.  Halfway around, the black-haired one took the lead in a spurt that was intended to last to the finish.  Ten feet he gained, nor could Red-head cut it down an inch.

“The boy’s a streak,” Billy commented.  “He ain’t tryin’ his hardest, an’ Red-head’s just bustin’ himself.”

Still ten feet in the lead, the black-haired one breasted the tape in a hubbub of cheers.  Yet yells of disapproval could be distinguished.  Bert hugged himself with joy.

“Mm-mm,” he gloated.  “Ain’t Frisco sore?  Watch out for fireworks now.  See!  He’s bein’ challenged.  The judges ain’t payin’ him the money.  An’ he’s got a gang behind him.  Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  Ain’t had so much fun since my old woman broke her leg!”

“Why don’t they pay him, Billy?” Saxon asked.  “He won.”

“The Frisco bunch is challengin’ him for a professional,” Billy elucidated.  “That’s what they’re all beefin’ about.  But it ain’t right.  They all ran for that money, so they’re all professional.”

The crowd surged and argued and roared in front of the judges’ stand.  The stand was a rickety, two-story affair, the second story open at the front, and here the judges could be seen debating as heatedly as the crowd beneath them.

“There she starts!” Bert cried.  “Oh, you rough-house!”

The black-haired racer, backed by a dozen supporters, was climbing the outside stairs to the judges.

“The purse-holder’s his friend,” Billy said.  “See, he’s paid him, an’ some of the judges is willin’ an’ some are beefin’.  An’ now that other gang’s going up ­they’re Redhead’s.”  He turned to Saxon with a reassuring smile.  “We’re well out of it this time.  There’s goin’ to be rough stuff down there in a minute.”

“The judges are tryin’ to make him give the money back,” Bert explained.  “An’ if he don’t the other gang’ll take it away from him.  See!  They’re reachin’ for it now.”

High above his head, the winner held the roll of paper containing the twenty-five silver dollars.  His gang, around him, was shouldering back those who tried to seize the money.  No blows had been struck yet, but the struggle increased until the frail structure shook and swayed.  From the crowd beneath the winner was variously addressed:  “Give it back, you dog!” “Hang on to it, Tim!” “You won fair, Timmy!” “Give it back, you dirty robber!” Abuse unprintable as well as friendly advice was hurled at him.

The struggle grew more violent.  Tim’s supporters strove to hold him off the floor so that his hand would still be above the grasping hands that shot up.  Once, for an instant, his arm was jerked down.  Again it went up.  But evidently the paper had broken, and with a last desperate effort, before he went down, Tim flung the coin out in a silvery shower upon the heads of the crowd beneath.  Then ensued a weary period of arguing and quarreling.

“I wish they’d finish, so as we could get back to the dancin’,” Mary complained.  “This ain’t no fun.”

Slowly and painfully the judges’ stand was cleared, and an announcer, stepping to the front of the stand, spread his arms appealing for silence.  The angry clamor died down.

“The judges have decided,” he shouted, “that this day of good fellowship an’ brotherhood ­”

“Hear!  Hear!” Many of the cooler heads applauded.  “That’s the stuff!” “No fightin’!” “No hard feelin’s!”

“An’ therefore,” the announcer became audible again, “the judges have decided to put up another purse of twenty-five dollars an’ run the race over again!”

“An’ Tim?” bellowed scores of throats.  “What about Tim?” “He’s been robbed!” “The judges is rotten!”

Again the announcer stilled the tumult with his arm appeal.

“The judges have decided, for the sake of good feelin’, that Timothy McManus will also run.  If he wins, the money’s his.”

“Now wouldn’t that jar you?” Billy grumbled disgustedly.  “If Tim’s eligible now, he was eligible the first time.  An’ if he was eligible the first time, then the money was his.”

“Red-head’ll bust himself wide open this time,” Bert jubilated.

“An’ so will Tim,” Billy rejoined.  “You can bet he’s mad clean through, and he’ll let out the links he was holdin’ in last time.”

Another quarter of an hour was spent in clearing the track of the excited crowd, and this time only Tim and Red-head toed the mark.  The other three young men had abandoned the contest.

The leap of Tim, at the report of the revolver, put him a clean yard in the lead.

“I guess he’s professional, all right, all right,” Billy remarked.  “An’ just look at him go!”

Half-way around, Tim led by fifty feet, and, running swiftly, maintaining the same lead, he came down the homestretch an easy winner.  When directly beneath the group on the hillside, the incredible and unthinkable happened.  Standing close to the inside edge of the track was a dapper young man with a light switch cane.  He was distinctly out of place in such a gathering, for upon him was no ear-mark of the working class.  Afterward, Bert was of the opinion that he looked like a swell dancing master, while Billy called him “the dude.”

So far as Timothy McManus was concerned, the dapper young man was destiny; for as Tim passed him, the young man, with utmost deliberation, thrust his cane between Tim’s flying legs.  Tim sailed through the air in a headlong pitch, struck spread-eagled on his face, and plowed along in a cloud of dust.

There was an instant of vast and gasping silence.  The young man, too, seemed petrified by the ghastliness of his deed.  It took an appreciable interval of time for him, as well as for the onlookers, to realize what he had done.  They recovered first, and from a thousand throats the wild Irish yell went up.  Red-head won the race without a cheer.  The storm center had shifted to the young man with the cane.  After the yell, he had one moment of indecision; then he turned and darted up the track.

“Go it, sport!” Bert cheered, waving his hat in the air.  “You’re the goods for me!  Who’d a-thought it?  Who’d a-thought it?  Say! ­wouldn’t it, now?  Just wouldn’t it?”

“Phew!  He’s a streak himself,” Billy admired.  “But what did he do it for?  He’s no bricklayer.”

Like a frightened rabbit, the mad roar at his heels, the young man tore up the track to an open space on the hillside, up which he clawed and disappeared among the trees.  Behind him toiled a hundred vengeful runners.

“It’s too bad he’s missing the rest of it,” Billy said.  “Look at ’em goin’ to it.”

Bert was beside himself.  He leaped up and down and cried continuously.

“Look at ’em!  Look at ’em!  Look at ’em!”

The Oakland faction was outraged.  Twice had its favorite runner been jobbed out of the race.  This last was only another vile trick of the Frisco faction.  So Oakland doubled its brawny fists and swung into San Francisco for blood.  And San Francisco, consciously innocent, was no less willing to join issues.  To be charged with such a crime was no less monstrous than the crime itself.  Besides, for too many tedious hours had the Irish heroically suppressed themselves.  Five thousands of them exploded into joyous battle.  The women joined with them.  The whole amphitheater was filled with the conflict.  There were rallies, retreats, charges, and counter-charges.  Weaker groups were forced fighting up the hillsides.  Other groups, bested, fled among the trees to carry on guerrilla warfare, emerging in sudden dashes to overwhelm isolated enemies.  Half a dozen special policemen, hired by the Weasel Park management, received an impartial trouncing from both sides.

“Nobody’s the friend of a policeman,” Bert chortled, dabbing his handkerchief to his injured ear, which still bled.

The bushes crackled behind him, and he sprang aside to let the locked forms of two men go by, rolling over and over down the hill, each striking when uppermost, and followed by a screaming woman who rained blows on the one who was patently not of her clan.

The judges, in the second story of the stand, valiantly withstood a fierce assault until the frail structure toppled to the ground in splinters.

“What’s that woman doing?” Saxon asked, calling attention to an elderly woman beneath them on the track, who had sat down and was pulling from her foot an elastic-sided shoe of generous dimensions.

“Goin’ swimming,” Bert chuckled, as the stocking followed.

They watched, fascinated.  The shoe was pulled on again over the bare foot.  Then the woman slipped a rock the size of her fist into the stocking, and, brandishing this ancient and horrible weapon, lumbered into the nearest fray.

“Oh! ­Oh! ­Oh!” Bert screamed, with every blow she struck “Hey, old flannel-mouth!  Watch out!  You’ll get yours in a second.  Oh!  Oh!  A peach!  Did you see it?  Hurray for the old lady!  Look at her tearin’ into ’em!  Watch out, old girl!...  Ah-h-h.”

His voice died away regretfully, as the one with the stocking, whose hair had been clutched from behind by another Amazon, was whirled about in a dizzy semicircle.

Vainly Mary clung to his arm, shaking him back and forth and remonstrating.

“Can’t you be sensible?” she cried.  “It’s awful!  I tell you it’s awful!”

But Bert was irrepressible.

“Go it, old girl!” he encouraged.  “You win!  Me for you every time!  Now’s your chance!  Swat!  Oh!  My!  A peach!  A peach!”

“It’s the biggest rough-house I ever saw,” Billy confided to Saxon.  “It sure takes the Micks to mix it.  But what did that dude wanta do it for?  That’s what gets me.  He wasn’t a bricklayer ­not even a workingman ­just a regular sissy dude that didn’t know a livin’ soul in the grounds.  But if he wanted to raise a rough-house he certainly done it.  Look at ’em.  They’re fightin’ everywhere.”

He broke into sudden laughter, so hearty that the tears came into his eyes.

“What is it?” Saxon asked, anxious not to miss anything.

“It’s that dude,” Billy explained between gusts.  “What did he wanta do it for?  That’s what gets my goat.  What’d he wanta do it for?”

There was more crashing in the brush, and two women erupted upon the scene, one in flight, the other pursuing.  Almost ere they could realize it, the little group found itself merged in the astounding conflict that covered, if not the face of creation, at least all the visible landscape of Weasel Park.

The fleeing woman stumbled in rounding the end of a picnic bench, and would have been caught had she not seized Mary’s arm to recover balance, and then flung Mary full into the arms of the woman who pursued.  This woman, largely built, middle-aged, and too irate to comprehend, clutched Mary’s hair by one hand and lifted the other to smack her.  Before the blow could fall, Billy had seized both the woman’s wrists.

“Come on, old girl, cut it out,” he said appeasingly.  “You’re in wrong.  She ain’t done nothin’.”

Then the woman did a strange thing.  Making no resistance, but maintaining her hold on the girl’s hair, she stood still and calmly began to scream.  The scream was hideously compounded of fright and fear.  Yet in her face was neither fright nor fear.  She regarded Billy coolly and appraisingly, as if to see how he took it ­her scream merely the cry to the clan for help.

“Aw, shut up, you battleax!” Bert vociferated, trying to drag her off by the shoulders.

The result was that The four rocked back and forth, while the woman calmly went on screaming.  The scream became touched with triumph as more crashing was heard in the brush.

Saxon saw Billy’s slow eyes glint suddenly to the hardness of steel, and at the same time she saw him put pressure on his wrist-holds.  The woman released her grip on Mary and was shoved back and free.  Then the first man of the rescue was upon them.  He did not pause to inquire into the merits of the affair.  It was sufficient that he saw the woman reeling away from Billy and screaming with pain that was largely feigned.

“It’s all a mistake,” Billy cried hurriedly.  “We apologize, sport ­”

The Irishman swung ponderously.  Billy ducked, cutting his apology short, and as the sledge-like fist passed over his head, he drove his left to the other’s jaw.  The big Irishman toppled over sidewise and sprawled on the edge of the slope.  Half-scrambled back to his feet and out of balance, he was caught by Bert’s fist, and this time went clawing down the slope that was slippery with short, dry grass.  Bert was redoubtable.  “That for you, old girl ­my compliments,” was his cry, as he shoved the woman over the edge on to the treacherous slope.  Three more men were emerging from the brush.

In the meantime, Billy had put Saxon in behind the protection of the picnic table.  Mary, who was hysterical, had evinced a desire to cling to him, and he had sent her sliding across the top of the table to Saxon.

“Come on, you flannel-mouths!” Bert yelled at the newcomers, himself swept away by passion, his black eyes flashing wildly, his dark face inflamed by the too-ready blood.  “Come on, you cheap skates!  Talk about Gettysburg.  We’ll show you all the Americans ain’t dead yet!”

“Shut your trap ­we don’t want a scrap with the girls here,” Billy growled harshly, holding his position in front of the table.  He turned to the three rescuers, who were bewildered by the lack of anything visible to rescue.  “Go on, sports.  We don’t want a row.  You’re in wrong.  They ain’t nothin’ doin’ in the fight line.  We don’t wanta fight ­d’ye get me?”

They still hesitated, and Billy might have succeeded in avoiding trouble had not the man who had gone down the bank chosen that unfortunate moment to reappear, crawling groggily on hands and knees and showing a bleeding face.  Again Bert reached him and sent him downslope, and the other three, with wild yells, sprang in on Billy, who punched, shifted position, ducked and punched, and shifted again ere he struck the third time.  His blows were clean end hard, scientifically delivered, with the weight of his body behind.

Saxon, looking on, saw his eyes and learned more about him.  She was frightened, but clear-seeing, and she was startled by the disappearance of all depth of light and shadow in his eyes.  They showed surface only ­a hard, bright surface, almost glazed, devoid of all expression save deadly seriousness.  Bert’s eyes showed madness.  The eyes of the Irishmen were angry and serious, and yet not all serious.  There was a wayward gleam in them, as if they enjoyed the fracas.  But in Billy’s eyes was no enjoyment.  It was as if he had certain work to do and had doggedly settled down to do it.

Scarcely more expression did she note in the face, though there was nothing in common between it and the one she had seen all day.  The boyishness had vanished.  This face was mature in a terrifying, ageless way.  There was no anger in it, nor was it even pitiless.  It seemed to have glazed as hard and passionlessly as his eyes.  Something came to her of her wonderful mother’s tales of the ancient Saxons, and he seemed to her one of those Saxons, and she caught a glimpse, on the well of her consciousness, of a long, dark boat, with a prow like the beak of a bird of prey, and of huge, half-naked men, wing-helmeted, and one of their faces, it seemed to her, was his face.  She did not reason this.  She felt it, and visioned it as by an unthinkable clairvoyance, and gasped, for the flurry of war was over.  It had lasted only seconds, Bert was dancing on the edge of the slippery slope and mocking the vanquished who had slid impotently to the bottom.  But Billy took charge.

“Come on, you girls,” he commanded.  “Get onto yourself, Bert.  We got to get onta this.  We can’t fight an army.”

He led the retreat, holding Saxon’s arm, and Bert, giggling and jubilant, brought up the rear with an indignant Mary who protested vainly in his unheeding ears.

For a hundred yards they ran and twisted through the trees, and then, no signs of pursuit appearing, they slowed down to a dignified saunter.  Bert, the trouble-seeker, pricked his ears to the muffled sound of blows and sobs, and stepped aside to investigate.

“Oh! look what I’ve found!” he called.

They joined him on the edge of a dry ditch and looked down.  In the bottom were two men, strays from the fight, grappled together and still fighting.  They were weeping out of sheer fatigue and helplessness, and the blows they only occasionally struck were open-handed and ineffectual.

“Hey, you, sport ­throw sand in his eyes,” Bert counseled.  “That’s it, blind him an’ he’s your’n.”

“Stop that!” Billy shouted at the man, who was following instructions, “Or I’ll come down there an’ beat you up myself.  It’s all over ­d’ye get me?  It’s all over an’ everybody’s friends.  Shake an’ make up.  The drinks are on both of you.  That’s right ­here, gimme your hand an’ I’ll pull you out.”

They left them shaking hands and brushing each other’s clothes.

“It soon will be over,” Billy grinned to Saxon.  “I know ’em.  Fight’s fun with them.  An’ this big scrap’s made the days howlin’ success.  What did I tell you! ­look over at that table there.”

A group of disheveled men and women, still breathing heavily, were shaking hands all around.

“Come on, let’s dance,” Mary pleaded, urging them in the direction of the pavilion.

All over the park the warring bricklayers were shaking hands and making up, while the open-air bars were crowded with the drinkers.

Saxon walked very close to Billy.  She was proud of him.  He could fight, and he could avoid trouble.  In all that had occurred he had striven to avoid trouble.  And, also, consideration for her and Mary had been uppermost in his mind.

“You are brave,” she said to him.

“It’s like takin’ candy from a baby,” he disclaimed.  “They only rough-house.  They don’t know boxin’.  They’re wide open, an’ all you gotta do is hit ’em.  It ain’t real fightin’, you know.”  With a troubled, boyish look in his eyes, he stared at his bruised knuckles.  “An’ I’ll have to drive team to-morrow with ’em,” he lamented.  “Which ain’t fun, I’m tellin’ you, when they stiffen up.”