The song was a lengthy one, and when it was finished, there was a pause; then some digger called out through the cloud of tobacco smoke that filled the room:
“Won't you give us a song, Mr Gerrard?” Gerrard, who was talking to Vale, and some other men, turned and shook his head smilingly, when suddenly there was a slight commotion near the open door, and Randolph Aulain pushed through the crowd into the centre of the room. He was booted and spurred, and carried a short, heavy whip of plaited greenhide.
“I should like to have a few words with you, Mr Gerrard, before you sing.”
In an instant there was a dead silence—the diggers saw that Aulain meant mischief, for his usually sallow features were now white with ill-concealed fury. Gerrard kept his seat, but leant back a little so as to look Aulain full in the face.
“I am not going to sing,” he said quietly. “If you have anything to say to me, say it.”
“This filthy den is somewhat too crowded for a private discussion—unless you wish to let every one here know what you are. Come outside.”
“You want me to fight you, Aulain, do you?” The steady, unmoved tone of his voice sounded clearly through the crowded room.
“Yes, you treacherous hound, I do. I'll make you fight.”
“You shall not. I do not fight with lunatics—and you speak and act like one. Come here to-morrow morning—or I will come to you if you wish.”
Vale put his hand on Aulain's arm, with rough good-humour. “Get back to your tent, my lad, or sit down and keep quiet This is my house. You can see Mr Gerrard in the morning. I'll engage he won't run away.”