“Mr Fanshawe,” went on the man in possession of affairs, “you’ve give your word—this is betune Billy and me, man to man. Billy Croom, have I thrumped your ace, or have I not?”
Billy was a very brave man, but he knew the infernal devil in the tree, and his utter recklessness when moved by whisky or rage.
“You have,” said Billy.
“You came afther me for gowld, and I’m goin’ to give yiz lead,” said Mr Murphy, “if yiz as much as blinks wan eye before I lays down me conditions of war. They’ll be hard, Billy Croom, but, begob! they’ll be better than hell.”
Dicky, holding Con by the sleeve, looked on fascinated. Intuition told him that Murphy would kill the man under him, if the man under him moved so much as a finger, for there was that in Murphy’s face which was beyond the earth.
“What’s you afther?” asked Croom, whose breath was coming hard.
“Strip!” said the other—“all but your britches and brogues; I’ll lave you those for dacency sake.”
“I’ll be——if I do!” said Croom.
“I’ve said it wanst, I’ll say it twice, and if I say it three times, I’ll shut—strip!”
Croom stripped.