"Order!" cried the bar-keeper, shoving his chin at those in the noisy corner. "Order, please!"
A man danced from the corner, beseeching another to "stand out." Scholar glanced in the direction of the group from which he had come, and it struck him that one or two faces there were turned more toward the men of the Glory than toward the combative person. At one small table, that stood all by itself, there had been, so far, a newspaper and two red fists; the newspaper came down now a little way and a face looked over the top, a face as red as the fists that had shown on each side. The bar-keeper's hands were flat on the counter again; he was looking (almost stupidly it seemed) at the man who desired trouble, but now his eye roved toward the face that appeared over the newspaper's top.
"Order, sir!" he said again, looking once more at the man who had stood up and forth to demand war.
Mike drained his glass; his eyes were very bright. He turned, and leaning against the counter, looked at the belligerent one, met his eye, cleared his throat oddly, and heaved up his chest. It struck Scholar that the beer acted quickly upon Mike.
"Well, will you fight me then?" said the man, catching Mike's eye.
Mike took a fierce step forward—he who had but a moment ago advised Scholar to keep out of such trouble. The eyes of the bar-keeper and of the man behind the newspaper again met. Down went the newspaper, up came the man. He walked over to the blusterer and addressed a knothole in the planks before his feet.
"I'll have to ask you to get out," he said, speaking to the knot-hole, and then glanced at the man.
"I don't have to!"
The actions were then as quick as when two cats, the preamble over, decide to come to grips. A whirl of arms and legs went down the middle of the saloon, the swing doors swept left and right and closed again, and the big man was alone now, his eye upon the doors as they wavered to a standstill.
"There you are!" said Michael to Scholar. "That's what I told you—this is a good class house."