George said, his face hostile, “We don’t serve water here.”
“But you’ll serve me an’ like it,” Dillon said. “D’you hear me, punk?—I said water.”
George reached under the counter for his club, but Dillon suddenly pushed up his hat and leant forward.
“You ain’t startin’ anythin’,” he said.
The cold black eyes that looked at George made the barman suddenly shiver. He took his hand away with a jerk. Dillon continued to stare at him.
There were no guts in George. He was big, and every now and then he had to smack someone down with his club. He did it without thinking. This bum was different. George knew he’d get nowhere being tough with a guy like this.
“Here, take the water, an’ get the hell outta here.” He pushed a bottle of water across the wood in Dillon’s direction.
The three at the table stopped talking about Hogan’s daughter and turned in their chairs. Freedman said, “Well, by God! Here’s another bum blown in.”
George began to sweat. He walked down the counter to Freedman, shaking his head warningly.
Dillon took a long pull from the water-bottle.