“What’s it to you, you sneakin’, red-headed sliver—” He hesitated, then pursued his former line of argumentation. “I kin make him eat ’em raw,” he whispered melodramatically.
“Like to be thar when you’re feeding him,” said Smeaton good-naturedly.
The men laughed again. There was a bantering note in the laughter, especially from Harrigan’s end of the table.
“And you, too, you red-headed—!” said Slocum, shaking his fist at Smeaton.
The laughter died away. The men were unnaturally quiet.
Smeaton mastered himself with an effort. “You’ll be gettin’ pussonel next.”
He was apparently unruffled, although a red tinge, creeping slowly up the back of his neck, showed what the effort had cost him.
Slocum, dully conscious that he had assumed a false position, hunted more trouble to cover his irritation. As the cookee, a lad of sixteen, passed him, he snickered. Slocum turned, and, much quicker than his condition seemed to warrant, struck the lad with the flat of his hand. The cookee, taken by surprise, jumped backward, caught his heel on one of the benches and crashed to the floor, striking his head on the bench as he fell.
Joe Smeaton jumped and struck in one motion. Slocum took the floor like a sack of potatoes.
“Guess that settles it,” said Smeaton, as he stood over the quiet form, waiting for the next move.