“Yees, to be surely,” replied the man, with a peculiarly saturnine smile.
“A slave-dealer?” exclaimed Briant, clenching his fists.
“Even so, sare.”
At this Briant uttered a shout, and throwing forward his clenched fists in a defiant attitude, exclaimed between his set teeth—
“Arrah! come on!”
Most men have peculiarities. Phil Briant had many; but his most striking peculiarity, and that which led him frequently into extremely awkward positions, was a firm belief that his special calling—in an amateur point of view—was the redressing of wrongs—not wrongs of a particular class, or wrongs of an excessively glaring and offensive nature, but all wrongs whatsoever. It mattered not to Phil whether the wrong had to be righted by force of argument or force of arms. He considered himself an accomplished practitioner in both lines of business—and in regard to the latter his estimate of his powers was not very much too high, for he was a broad-shouldered, deep-chested, long-armed fellow, and had acquired a scientific knowledge of boxing under a celebrated bruiser at the expense of a few hard-earned shillings, an occasional bottle of poteen, and many a severe thrashing.
Justice to Phil’s amiability of character requires, however, that we should state that he never sought to terminate an argument with his fists unless he was invited to do so, and even then he invariably gave his rash challenger fair warning, and offered to let him retreat if so disposed. But when injustice met his eye, or when he happened to see cruelty practised by the strong against the weak, his blood fired at once, and he only deigned the short emphatic remark— “Come on,” sometimes preceded by “Arrah!” sometimes not. Generally speaking, he accepted his own challenge, and went on forthwith.
Of all the iniquities that draw forth the groans of humanity on this sad earth, slavery, in the opinion of Phil Briant, was the worst. He had never come in contact with it, not having been in the Southern States of America. He knew from hearsay that the coast of Africa was its fountain, but he had forgotten the fact, and in the novelty of the scene before him, it did not at first occur to him that he was actually face to face with a “live slave-dealer.”
“Let me go!” roared the Irishman, as he struggled in the iron grip of Tim Rokens; and the not less powerful grasp of Glynn Proctor. “Och! let me go! Doo, darlints. I’ll only give him wan—jist wan! Let me go, will ye?”
“Not if I can help it,” said Glynn, tightening his grasp.