It was inconceivable.
Had the man loudly shouted his challenge or thrown up his guard when he dared him to strike, or had his eye twitched or burned with anger, he would have unhesitatingly lunged into a fight to the finish.
But he found himself at a disadvantage. He was up against something he did not understand. The calm assurance of the stranger—his fists were not doubled and his lips smiled—disconcerted him.
A strange, prickly chill tingled at the back of his neck, and in his heart he knew that for the first time in his life he dared not strike a man. He cast about craftily to save his face and took his cue from the other's smile. With an effort his loose, thick lips twisted into a grin.
"G'wan with yer jokin', stranger," he laughed.
"Y'u damn near made me mad—fer a minute," and he turned to the table.
Instantly a clatter of noise broke forth. Men rattled dishes nervously in relief or disappointment, and the room was filled with the rumble of voices in unmeaning chatter. But in the quick glances which passed from man to man there was much of meaning.
"God, man, that was Moncrossen!" whispered Fallon, when the two found themselves seated near the end of the table. Bill smiled.
"Was it?" he asked. "I don't like him."