I reckon Jim was crying.
Ryan had swung forward along the bar, and reached for Balshannon's empty glass. "Here, take your drink," he shouted, "the drink you begged for!"
Balshannon stepped aside while Ryan filled the glass for him to drink. "Thank you," he said. But Ryan snatched the full glass, jumped back, swung out his arm—"Take that!" he yelled, and threw the glass straight at Balshannon's face.
The patrone took a handkerchief and wiped his face, slow and dainty, but the blood was starting where the glass had struck. "I'm sorry," he said, "that it should come to this, but as you are not in condition, Mr. Ryan, to fight, I must ask you, Mr. Michael Ryan, to oblige me."
"Fight?" yelled Ryan. "Fight a thing like you? Not much! Back, Michael! My Lord Balshannon," he sneered, "do you think my son would demean himself to fight you?"
"I observe," said Balshannon kindly, "that he seems to be rather warm in that fur overcoat."
The crowd broke out laughing, half ready, I felt then to take the weaker side against a coward. The patrone was so surely great, so much a man, so helpless—death in his eyes, peace on his smiling lips; and the Ryans in furs and jewellery looked such curs.
I had stepped back against the wall, facing the middle of the bar. On the right was the Ryan gang, on the left Balshannon, behind me the row of windows which looked on the alley-way where my men lay hid. I rapped soft with my knuckles on the window just at my right hand.
"Say, Chalkeye!" Louisiana was hailing me. "Why don't you stand by the Dook? Have you gone back on the Dook?"
"I stand here, Pete," said I, "to see fair play."