McGregor pushed himself in at the far end, brushing an innocent individual out of his way in the operation. The man who followed McGregor wedged himself in next. McGregor slid along and two more harmless men at the bar gave way. It was an old trick and they knew how to perform it. Still the McGregor gang pushed in, one after another, until the entire counter was taken up 124 by the six, who stood there, legs and elbows sprawled, laughing and jeering at the men they had displaced and at their lack of courage in not endeavouring to hold their own.
They stood in this fashion for possibly five minutes, blocking the counter and not allowing anyone else to get near it.
Suddenly Phil jumped up from his seat and walked over to the bar.
“Say, fellows! Come on all and have a drink on me!” he shouted.
The six at the bar swung round to look at the speaker.
“Come on,––ease up, you ginks!––unless you’ve hired the Kenora saloon for the night.”
No one moved, so Phil caught the man nearest to him by the belt and yanked him out deftly. Langford, who was immediately behind Phil, caught the next one and repeated the performance.
There was a scramble and some of the more aggressive bystanders joined in to Phil’s and Jim’s assistance. Then the more timid followed, with the ultimate result that five of McGregor’s gang were dislodged, as a dozen men crowded alongside and around their champion. McGregor still held his place defiantly, elbows and legs asprawl as before. Phil was close up to him, with Jim at Phil’s left hand.
“Guess you think you’re some kid!” McGregor remarked, spitting a wad of chewing tobacco on to the floor.
“Quit your scrapping,” returned Phil in assumed irritation. “Have a drink!––it’s on me. It isn’t often I stand treat. Name your poison!”