As has been said, on this particular morning the men all felt out of sorts, and, to make things worse, the cook had burned the biscuits.
“It’s always the way,” grumbled O’Brien, who was usually called “Red,” both because of the color of his hair, and also on account of his red-hot temper, “them French cooks never is no good, nohow! I for one never heard of a—— frog-eater who ever was any good, anyhow,” he continued, casting a meaning glance in Lavine’s direction.
Lavine rose slowly from his seat, an ominous scowl on his dark face.
“You mean to say, den, Irishman, zat you tink no Frenchman be any good? Is zat what you say?”
“Ye guessed right foist time, Frenchy,” replied O’Brien, recklessly. “Now, what ye gonna do about it, hey?”
“Dog!” hissed the Frenchman, his eyes flashing and his dark face livid with rage. “I will show you who ees your master!” and he leaped across the rough table and struck O’Brien a tremendous blow on the jaw.
Any ordinary man would have dropped like a log, but the hardy Irishman only reeled a little from the terrific buffet.
“So that’s how ye feel, is ut?” he grunted, and they fell to belaboring each other in good earnest.
The rest of the men were delighted at this turn of affairs and quickly formed a ring around the combatants.
Neither man was very popular in the camp, so the men could enjoy the fight without having to worry about which one conquered. All they cared for was to see a rousing fight, and their desires seemed in a fair way to be gratified.