“I tell you not to do that again!” said Clayton, his tone rising.
“And what will you do? Hey—you coward, what will you do? I’m in command here, ain’t I?”
“I haven’t said you’re not, but I tell you not to do that again.”
Some of the men rose, grinning; this was becoming interesting to them.
“Give it to him, Molloy!” one of them sang out.
Molloy pushed his fist against Clayton’s nose, this time so strongly that it brought blood, for Clayton’s nose was still sensitive and ready to bleed at a touch. The dripping of blood down on his shirt caused Clayton to turn white as a sheet; his eyes glittered with a sort of flash, and he clenched his fists.
“You’re a bully and a coward,” he said, in a low, tense tone. “And if you think I’m afraid of you, or afraid to fight you, you’re mistaken.”
He stepped back, and began slowly to take off his coat. His head was roaring in a queer way, and flecks of red seemed to shoot and dart before his eyes.
The men gathered around, forming a ring, with the youths in the middle.
“Slug him, Molloy!” said the one who had chipped in before.