The fellow’s face had convulsed with a snarl of redder rage, his mouth opened as if for fresh abuse—and half rising I landed upon it with my fist.
“Go where you belong, you drunken whelp!”
I had struck and spoken at the same time, with a rush of wrath that surprised me; and the result surprised me more, for while I was not conscious of having exerted much force he toppled backward clear across the aisle, crashed down in a heap under the opposite seat. His bottle shattered against the ceiling. The whiskey spattered in a sickening shower over the alarmed passengers.
“Look out! Look out!” she cried, starting quickly. Up he scrambled, cursing, and wrenching at his revolver. I sprang to smother him, but there was a flurry, a chorus of shouts, men leaped between us, the brakeman and conductor both had arrived, in a jiffy he was being hustled forward, swearing and 46 blubbering. And I sank back, breathless, a degree ashamed, a degree rather satisfied with my action and my barked knuckles.
Congratulations echoed dully.
“The right spirit!”
“That’ll l’arn him to insult a lady.”
“You sartinly rattled him up, stranger. Squar’ on the twitter!”
“Shake, Mister.”
“For a pilgrim you’re consider’ble of a hoss.”