“Let us have it!” responded several voices.
“America for the Americans, and confusion to all foreign interlopers—especially the damned Irish!”
On delivering the obnoxious sentiment, he staggered back a pace; which brought his body in contact with that of the mustanger—at the moment standing with the glass raised to his lips.
The collision caused the spilling of a portion of the whisky and water; which fell over the mustanger’s breast.
Was it an accident? No one believed it was—even for a moment. Accompanied by such a sentiment the act could only have been an affront intended and premeditated.
All present expected to see the insulted man spring instantly upon his insulter. They were disappointed, as well as surprised, at the manner in which the mustanger seemed to take it. There were some who even fancied he was about to submit to it.
“If he does,” whispered Hancock in Sloman’s ear, “he ought to be kicked out of the room.”
“Don’t you be alarmed about that,” responded the infantry officer, in the same sotto voce. “You’ll find it different. I’m not given to betting, as you know; but I’d lay a month’s pay upon it the mustanger don’t back out; and another, that Mr Cassius Calhoun will find him an ugly customer to deal with, although just now he seems more concerned about his fine shirt, than the insult put upon him. Odd devil he is!”
While this whispering was being carried on, the man to whom it related was still standing by the bar—to use a hackneyed phrase, “the observed of all observers.”
Having deposited his glass upon the counter, he had drawn a silk handkerchief from his pocket, and was wiping from his embroidered shirt bosom the defilement of the spilt whisky.