“Drop yer fist, boy! Put up that knife, Joe! Let’s understand each other.”
Then addressing the stranger, but keeping an eye upon Rummey Joe, he said:
“See here, my hearty, you don’t quite take in the siteration. This is a sort of club house, not open to the general public. If you want to hang out here, you must show your credentials.”
The stranger hesitated a moment, and then, without so much as a glance at his antagonist, said:
“Your racket is fair enough. I know where I am, and ye’ve all got a right to see my colors. I’ll show ye my hand, and then”—with a baleful glare at Rummey Joe—“I’ll settle with that blackguard.”
Advancing to one of the tables, he deliberately lifted his foot and, resting it upon the table top, rolled up the leg of his trousers, and pulled down a dirty stocking over his low shoe.
“There’s my passport, gentlemen.”
They crowded about him and gazed upon the naked ankle, that bore the imprint of a broad band, sure indication that the limb had recently been decorated with a ball and chain.
“And now,” said the ex-convict, turning fiercely, “I’ll teach you the kind of a tramp I am, Mr. Rummey Joe!”
Before a hand or voice could be raised to prevent it, the two men had grappled, and were struggling fiercely for the mastery.