"Who says I am drunk?" demanded the champion of whisky. "Let me get at him."
But his friends were now holding him back. They wanted to see a square fight, according to rule. It would prove, in their opinion, a pleasant little excitement.
"I meant no offense," said Ferguson; "I only told the truth."
"You are a —— liar!" exclaimed the man, known as Jim.
"I do not heed the words of a man in your condition," said the Scotchman calmly.
"Pull his nose, Jim! Make him fight!" exclaimed the friends of the bully. "We'll back you!"
The hint was taken. Jim staggered forward, and, seizing the Scotchman's prominent nose, gave it a violent tweak.
Now there are few men, with or without self-respect, who can calmly submit to an insult like this. Certainly Mr. Donald Ferguson was not one of them. The color mantled his high cheek-bones, and anger gained dominion over him. He sprang to his feet, grasped the bully in his strong arms, dashed him backward upon the floor of the barroom, and, turning to the companions of the fallen man, he said, "Now come on, if you want to fight. I'll take you one by one, and fight the whole of you, if you like."
Instead of being angry, they applauded his pluck. They cared little for the fate of their champion, but were impressed by the evident strength of the stranger.
"Stranger," said one of them, "you've proved that you're a man of honor. We thought you were a coward. It's a pity you don't drink. What may your name be?"