A number of seamen with cutlasses belted at their sides were to be seen across the way; two or three stood at the window; and as Dale spoke their leader, evidently a boatswain, opened the door and swaggered in. The proprietor advanced with an uneasy smile.
“Good-evening, sir,” said he, with a bow.
“How do you do?” returned the other. As he said this he glanced at the shop’s three patrons with an air of calm inspection. The powerful figure of Dirk Hatfield seemed to attract him, and he coolly advanced to his side.
“Sailor, I think,” he said.
“Wrong,” said the gentleman of the road, looking up from his meal.
“I think not,” persisted the man-of-war’s-man quietly.
An angry look came into Hatfield’s fierce eyes; he laid down his knife and fork, leaned back in his chair and growled out,
“Well, my man, you are a pert lad enough: but be careful how you speak to a gentleman. You are in danger of having your face spoiled if you talk like that.”
The sailor laughed. He swung one leg over the corner of the table at which the other sat and tapped with one finger tip upon the butt of a pistol.
“I’m not much afraid of that—my man,” he said.