"'Sufficient unto the day,' sir!" Barnabas retorted; "in the meantime I shall most certainly give myself the pleasure of kicking you downstairs unless you choose to walk—at once."
As he spoke, Barnabas took a stride towards Mr. Chichester's rigid figure, but, in that moment, Barrymaine snatched up the bottle and sprang between them.
"Ah!—would you?" he cried, "who are you to order my f-friends about—and in m-my own place too! Ha! did you think you could buy me, d-did you? Did you think I—I'd sacrifice my sister—did you? Ha! drunk, am I? Well, I'm sober enough to—to 'venge my honor and hers; by God I'll kill you! Ah—let go, Dig! Let go, I say! Didn't you hear? Tempt me with his cursed money, will he! Oh, let go my arm! Damn him, I say—I'll kill him!"
But, as he struck, Mr. Smivvle caught his wrist, the bottle crashed splintering to the floor, and they were locked in a fierce grapple.
"Beverley—my dear fellow—go!" panted Mr. Smivvle, "must forgive—poor Barry—not himself. Go—go,—I can—manage him. Now Barry, do be calm! Go, my dear fellow—leave him to me—go!" So, perforce, Barnabas turned away and went down the dingy stairs, and in his ears was the echo of the boy's drunken ravings and Mr. Chichester's soft laughter.
And presently, being come into the dingy street, Barnabas paused to look up at the dingy house, and looking, sighed.
"She said it would be 'difficult, and dangerous, perhaps,'" said he to himself, "and indeed I think she was right."
Then he turned and went upon his way, heavy-footed and chin on breast. On he went, plunged in gloomy abstraction, turning corners at random, lost to all but the problem he had set himself, which was this:
How he might save Ronald Barrymaine in spite of Ronald Barrymaine.