His attire, too, was ragged and greasy, with clumsy, stogy boots upon his feet, and a dilapidated hat upon his head.
On entering the room, he paused and glared around him, as if in search of some one on whom to vent his wrath.
"Well, Bully Jake, what'll ye have!" the tavern-keeper demanded, with a frown, for the ruffian was evidently an unwelcome intruder.
"Waal, I don't keer ef I do take a drap o' likker!" the man growled, glaring around.
"You to blazes! I mean, what d'ye want here?" Fat John grunted.
"A fureigner—a fureigner! Ye know I'm death on 'em, an' thar can't none o' 'em can stay around hyar, while I hev things my way."
"What foreigner is there here, now?"
"A Dutch cuss, blarst his eyes! Thar he sets," and he indicated Fritz who was tipped back in one corner. "Oh! but I'll go through him, though! I'll pulverize and sow him to the seven winds of the earth."
Then, with a tragic stride, he made for Fritz, pausing but a few paces away from him, and shaking his fist fairly in his face.
"You, look!" the ruffian cried. "D'ye know who I am?"