“What’s that?” the trio exclaimed in a breath, as they turned toward him.
“Wait a minute! wait a minute!” urged the tramp, holding up his hand. “After I pay for the suds you can try it if you want to. No use to fool yourself out of a drink in your haste.”
McCord began to laugh.
“I guess dat’s right, stranger,” he admitted. “We’ll drink on you and den we’ll kick your face in.”
The tramp did not appear to be frightened. Instead of that, standing in their midst, he coolly paid for the drinks from a small amount of loose change.
“The last of a misspent fortune,” he said dolefully. “When that’s gone I’ll have to work—or steal. What’s the use to quarrel, gents? Mebbe the three of you can put me out in short order, but I will go any one of you singly at any old thing. I will run, jump, wrastle, or fight any man in the place.”
Now it happened that Skip Billings regarded himself as a clever wrestler, while as a fighter Tapper Mullin was known on the Point to be second only to Bingo McCord.
“Here’s where we have a little sport!” exclaimed Bingo. “Clear der floor, gents, and see Skip pile this frisky chap up in a hurry.”
The prospect of a wrestling match seemed to delight every one present, and without delay the space was cleared. Deliberately the young hobo removed his ragged coat and tossed it into a corner, flinging his battered hat after it.
“Better take your drink first,” grinned McCord, motioning toward the single glass left standing on the bar.