“I didn't hear you say you are a liar.”
“Look here,” cried Bulling, “haven't you got enough. Be thankful you're not killed. Go on! Get home! I don't run a butcher shop!”
“Will you say you're a liar and a cowardly liar?”
Barney's voice had in it the ring of cold steel.
“I say, boys,” said Bulling, appealing to the crowd, “keep this fool off. I don't want to kill him.”
Foxmore, with some of the others, approached Barney.
“Now, Boyle, quit it,” said Foxmore. “There's no use, you see.” He laid his hand on Barney's arm.
Barney put his hand against his breast, appearing to brush him aside, but Foxmore touched nothing till he struck the wall ten feet away.
“Get back!” cried Barney, springing away from the men approaching him. As he spoke, he seized a small oak dressing table by one of its legs, swung it round his head, dashed it to pieces on the marble floor, and, putting his foot upon the wreckage, with one mighty wrench had the leg free in his hand.
“You men stand back,” he said in a low voice, “and don't any of you interfere.”