"Come on, boys!"
"Hit 'im a good 'un, Bill! 'E's spoilin' our business, that's what 'e's doin'."
"Push in his face. 'Ammer 'im good 'n' proper!"
"We'll show 'im what's what!"
"'E's a noosance. Le's get rid of 'im. Lemme get at 'im once. I'll show 'im!"
So they came on, clumsy with drink, but their maudlin outcries didn't scare Grenfell a bit.
He was waiting for them,—cool, quiet, determined.
Their diet was mostly bad ale and beer, or whiskey: Grenfell was all muscle, from constant exercise and wholesome diet—the roast beef of old England, whole wheat bread, plenty of rich milk.
They were no match for him.
On they came, one after another. The first lunged out heavily; Grenfell parried the blow with his right hand and landed his left on the jaw. The ruffian fell to the floor like a log of wood and lay there. As he fell, he clutched at the corner of the table and overturned it with a mighty crash on top of him.