Sim Hicks was swearing so loudly that the seaman turned in that direction. The Innkeeper was shaking his fist in the minister’s face. Captain Pott dragged the squirming Beaver across the room.
“See here, Sim, you’d best shet that trap-door of yours, it’s letting out too much blue smoke, and the dominee don’t permit swearing among the boys. Cal’late I can give you some assistance if you’re needing it,” said the seaman, coming uncomfortably near. “As for that there slugger of yourn, he’s nothing but a white-livered cur of a coward.”
“You take back those words, or I’ll make you swallow them one at a time!”
The threat came from the city pugilist, and the Captain swung about to face him.
“This here is my friend you hurt,”––the seaman’s eyes flashed with fury as he jerked his thumb toward the minister,––“and I cal’late you’d best apologize for what you’ve done to him.”
“Why, you doddering old idiot! If you didn’t want your little pet hurt, you’d best 106 have kept him home. I understand he’s your special hobby.”
“You’d best apologize,” repeated the Captain in dangerous calm.
The pugilist laughed hoarsely. “When I do it will be in a hotter place than where we are to-night. I did nothing–––”
“Don’t lie to me! I see what you done. Either you fight like a man,––even if you ain’t one,––or by the lord Harry–––”