“Sit down!” ordered she, shoving him into a chair. “And stay there! Faith, it’s ashamed of yourself you ought to be, to be after raising such a pother about the place. Keep quiet now, for if it’s again I have to come out to you, it’s the back of my hand I’ll give you, so it is.”
And with that and a whisk of her short skirts she was gone. And as she departed the landlord reappeared armed with a stout staff and backed by a number of his ablest waiters and hostlers, also armed. But the blows of Master Bleekwood, and the fearless front of the Irish girl had had their effect upon the giant, for he kept his chair quietly enough; what remained of his humor was vented in a low muttering, the purport of which was not intelligible.
And after things were fairly quiet once more, Ben Cooper spoke to Bleekwood.
“It were a thousand pities, sir, that your health is not what it should be. Otherwise you would be able to resent such affronts as that fellow put upon you.”
The lad spoke drily; there was a suspicion of mockery in his eyes.
“Why, as for that,” said the man, “I have often thought that health is a thing greatly to be desired. But it is a boon not meant for me, that I sadly fear. If I were possessed of it, I might be able to do some little thing to protect myself; but as it is——” and he shook his head and sighed.
This, then, was a favorite pose of the melancholy Bleekwood; he desired to seem backward in any matter requiring physical effort, and a nervous weakling in things calling for courage.
“But,” thought the lad who sat near him, “he is a pretty fighter enough. Indeed, I would say that it would go extremely hard with any but the best who faced him.”
“It were well that I could provide myself with a half dozen strong fellows to-night, so that there might be no missing the point of our efforts,” said Bleekwood.
“Ah; and so there are some others?” said Ben.