“One minute,” said Winton curtly, taking the telegram from the boy and signing for it.
“I'll give ye more'n ye can carry away in less'n half that time—see?” was the minatory retort; and the threat was made good by an awkward buffet which would have knocked the engineer out of his chair if he had remained in it.
Now Winton's eyes were gray and steadfast, but his hair was of that shade of brown which takes the tint of dull copper in certain lights, and he had a temper which went with the red in his hair rather than with the gray in his eyes. Wherefore his attempt to placate his assailant was something less than diplomatic.
“You drunken scoundrel!” he snapped. “If you don't go about your business and let me alone, I'll turn you over to the police with a broken bone or two!”
The bully's answer was a blow delivered straight from the shoulder—too straight to harmonize with the fiction of drunkenness. Winton saw the sober purpose in it and went battle-mad, as a hasty man will. Being a skilful boxer,—which his antagonist was not,—he did what he had to do neatly and with commendable despatch. Down, up; down, up; down a third time, and then the bystanders interfered.
“Hold on!”
“That'll do!”
“Don't you see he's drunk?”
“Enough's as good as a feast—let him go.”
Winton's blood was up, but he desisted, breathing threatenings. Whereat Biggin shouldered his way into the circle.