The skipper burst into a fresh rage, and Hiram calmly waited.
“The idea is, Klebe,” he went on in a maddeningly patronising way, “you’ve always done about as you wanted to and made others stand ’round. Now, I’ve come back to Palermo to do a little runnin’ of things for myself. I’ll give you your chance at me when the right and proper time comes, and fair warning ahead. And when you say that you’ll walk off these premises, then I’ll pull out the fork. If you don’t promise here before these people to keep away from me and shut up about fights, you may as well make arrangements to have your meals brought.”
At that moment Squire Phin came hastily into the yard, in advance of the puffing, hopping, terrified Figger-four, who had brought him.
“Hiram,” he called, as he came within hearing, “release Captain Willard.”
“Not until he promises to behave himself.”
For answer the Squire, his face flaming with indignation, stepped behind his brother, and, seizing him by the shoulders, yanked him backwards. The fork came away and Willard stood free, clutching his bleeding ear. As he rushed again at Hiram, the Squire stepped between. He said slowly, quietly, yet with something in his face and his mien that was soul-compelling:
“Captain Willard, you go home!”
After a long stare at him, a stare that at last grew wavering, Willard turned and went out of the yard.
The Squire stood and looked at his brother while the spectators stole sheepishly away. His hands were clasped behind his back; sorrow, anger, and reproach were upon his face.
At last the showman stooped and dragged the fork tine to and fro on the grass to restore its brightness.