“Well,––if that’s all you’re up to, guess I might as well,” he answered, in reluctant conciliation.
“Come on, fellows! This hell-for-leather blacksmith 125 wants to blow in his week’s wages on drinks. We ain’t goin’ to stop him.”
The bar-tenders served as fast as they could. Phil paid the score, then turned to have a fresh look at McGregor. The latter was watching him closely out of the corner of his eyes. He took up his glass.
“Guess you think you’re puttin’ one over,” he snarled. “Well,––you’ve got another guess comin’.”
He put his tumbler up against Phil’s jacket, tilted it deliberately, sending the contents trickling all the way down Phil’s clothes right to his boot. He looked into Ralston’s eyes with a sneer on his face and slowly set his tumbler on the counter, watching every movement in the room through narrowed eyes.
Phil’s temper flared out and he swung on McGregor with tremendous quickness.
To his surprise, quick as he was, his fist fell on McGregor’s wrist.
In a second, they were in the centre of the room, tables and chairs were whirled into corners as by magic, and the two were in a ring formed by a wall of swaying bodies and eager faces, for more than a few of them had witnessed the previous encounter between the pair and had been wondering just when the return match would take place.
Phil waited with bated breath for the bull-like rush which he expected, while Langford’s voice could be heard high over the hubbub, shouting in the Doric to which he had risen in his excitement:––
“Mair room! Gi’e them mair room. Widen oot, can ye no!––widen oot!”