Macdonald Dubh, scorning to show hesitation, though he suspected treachery, strode after Murphy to the tavern door and through the crowd of shanty-men filling the room. They were as ferocious looking a lot of men as could well be got together, even in that country and in those days—shaggy of hair and beard, dressed out in red and blue and green jerseys, with knitted sashes about their waists, and red and blue and green tuques on their heads. Drunken rows were their delight, and fights so fierce that many a man came out battered and bruised to death or to life-long decrepitude. They were sitting on the benches that ran round the room, or lounging against the bar singing, talking, blaspheming. At the sight of Macdonald Dubh and his men there fell a dead silence, and then growls of recognition, but Murphy was not yet ready, and roaring out “Dh-r-r-i-n-k-s,” he seized a couple of his men leaning against the bar, and hurling them to right and left, cried, “Ma-a-ke room for yer betthers, be the powers! Sthand up, bhoys, and fill yirsilves!”
Black Hugh and his men lined up gravely to the bar and were straightway surrounded by the crowd yelling hideously. But if Murphy and his gang thought to intimidate those grave Highlanders with noise, they were greatly mistaken, for they stood quietly waiting for their glasses to be filled, alert, but with an air of perfect indifference. Some eight or ten glasses were set down and filled, when Murphy, snatching a couple of bottles from the shelf behind the bar, handed them out to his men, crying, “Here, ye bluddy thaves, lave the glasses to the gintlemen!”
There was no mistaking the insolence in his tone, and the chorus of derisive yells that answered him showed that his remark had gone to the spot.
Yankee Jim, who had kept close to Black Hugh, saw the veins in his neck beginning to swell, and face to grow dark. He was longing to be at Murphy's throat. “Speak him fair,” he said, in a low tone, “there's rather a good string of 'em raound.” Macdonald Dubh glanced about him. His eye fell on his boy, and for the first time his face became anxious. “Ranald,” he said, angrily, “take yourself out of this. It is no place for you whatever.” The boy, a slight lad of seventeen, but tall and well-knit, and with his father's fierce, wild, dark face, hesitated.
“Go,” said his father, giving him a slight cuff.
“Here, boy!” yelled LeNoir, catching him by the arm and holding the bottle to his mouth, “drink.” The boy took a gulp, choked, and spat it out. LeNoir and his men roared. “Dat good whiskey,” he cried, still holding the boy. “You not lak dat, hey?”
“No,” said the boy, “it is not good at all.”
“Try heem some more,” said LeNoir, thrusting the bottle at him again.
“I will not,” said Ranald, looking at LeNoir straight and fearless.
“Ho-ho! mon brave enfant! But you have not de good mannere. Come, drink!” He caught the boy by the back of the neck, and made as if to pour the whiskey down his throat. Black Hugh, who had been kept back by Yankee Jim all this time, started forward, but before he could take a second step Ranald, squirming round like a cat, had sunk his teeth into LeNoir's wrist. With a cry of rage and pain LeNoir raised the bottle and was bringing it down on Ranald's head, when Black Hugh, with one hand, caught the falling blow, and with the other seized Ranald, and crying, “Get out of this!” he flung him towards the door. Then turning to LeNoir, he said, with surprising self-control, “It is myself that is sorry that a boy of mine should be guilty of biting like a dog.”