Avery turned from the stove and strode toward Harrigan, undoing his long white cook’s apron as he came, but Ross was on his feet and in front of the Irishman in a bound.
“You whelp!” he said, shaking his fist under Harrigan’s nose.
The men arose, dropping knives and forks in their amazement.
Fisty sat dazed for a moment; then his face grew purple.
“You little skunk, I’ll kill you fur this!”
Avery interfered. “If thar’s goin’ to be any killin’ did, promisc’us-like, I reckon it’ll be did out thar,” he said quietly, pointing toward the doorway. “I ain’t calc’latin’ to have things mussed up in here, fur I tend to my own house-cleanin’, understand?”
Ross, who anticipated a “free-for-all,” stood with a chair swung halfway to his shoulder. At Avery’s word, however, he dropped it.
“Sorry, Avery, but I’m not used to that kind of thing,” he said, pointing to Harrigan.
“Like ’nough, like ’nough—I hain’t nuther,” replied Avery conciliatingly. “But don’t you git your dander up any wuss than it be, fur I reckon you got your work cut out keepin’ yourself persentable fur a spell.” He drew Ross to one side. “Fisty ain’t called ‘Fisty’ fur nothin’, but I’ll see to the rest of ’em.”
Harrigan, cursing volubly, went outside, followed by the men. Avery paused to offer a word of advice to Ross.