Passing along a dark street, he saw before him a group of men, noisy, hilarious, quarrelling. Drawing near, he discovered the group to consist of three men assisting a fourth, apparently drunk, and blocking the sidewalk. He was not entirely ignorant of the ways of men in liquor, and was proceeding quietly on his way when he was hailed by the drunken man.
“Hello there, boy! Come here, boy! Come here, I want you.”
“What do you want?” replied Paul, drawing near.
“Come here, boy,” said the drunken man, with great gravity. “I want shplain shomething. Lemme go. Want shee thish young man. Hands off. My name’sh Dan Tussock, can’t come over me.”
“That’s all right, Dan. Come along now. Don’t go making a row,” said one of his friends, soothingly.
“Lemme go, I tell you. Walk by myshelf. Here, boy!” He seized Paul by the coat collar and hung, swaying.
Paul stood regarding them curiously.
“What are you looking at, young man? Did you never see a man pickled before?” The speaker had an evil face, cunning, and with a shaggy growth of whiskers.
“Yes, I have seen men pickled,” said Paul. “But if this gentleman wants to speak to me I am going to hear what he has to say.”
“That’sh all ri’. Don’t take no lip from ole Sammy here. My name’sh Dan Tussock, can’t come over me.”