Molloy doubled a hairy red fist and stepped in front of him.
“You don’t, hey? I reckon you know I’m commander here now?”
“Yes.” Clayton eyed that hairy and threatening fist.
“Then speak with respect to me. Do you understand that? You’ve got to speak with respect to me, or I’ll hammer your face in ag’in.”
“It wasn’t you did it.”
“You think I can’t, eh?”
Molloy shook his hairy, red fist under Clayton’s nose.
Clayton hesitated, and looked about uneasily. He knew that since his refusal of the night he was looked on as a coward by these men. Molloy was bullying him because of that. Molloy was himself the coward, and Clayton felt it—yet he hesitated, merely pushing the red fist away when it was thrust so close that it touched the tip of his nose.
“Don’t do that!” he protested mildly; so mildly that Molloy was only encouraged to continue his bullying.
“I’m not to, eh?” said Molloy, pushing his fist once more against Clayton’s nose, this time with such strength it was almost a blow.