"I'm going on to the Huts," said the seaman.
"And we're going with him as a guard to the baby," said the Irish fellow.
"A blackguard set," threw in Bideabout.
"What about the color so long as it is effective?" asked Casey.
By degrees the anger of Lonegon was allayed, and he seated himself growling at the table, and wiped the blood from his torn wrist on his sleeve, and drawing forth a dirty and tattered red kerchief, bound it round the bruised and wounded joint. The man, Bideabout, did not concern himself with the wrath or the anguish of the man. He rubbed his hands together, and clapped a palm on each knee, and looked into the fire with a smirk on his face, but with an eye on the alert lest his adversary should attempt to steal an advantage on him.
Nor was he unjustified in being on his guard, judging by the malignant glances cast at him by Lonegon.
"Whom may you be?" asked the tattered man.
"I'm Jonas Kink," answered the young fellow at the fire.
"He's Bideabout, the Broom-Squire," explained the landlady. Then with a glimmering of a notion that this variation in names might prove confusing, she added, "leastways that's what we calls him. We don't use the names writ in the Church register here. He's the Broom-Squire—and not the sort o' chap for you ragamuffins to have dealings with—let me tell you."
"I don't kear what he be," said Lonegon, sullenly, "but dang it, I'd like a sup o' ale with your leave," and without further ceremony he took the new tankard from the sailor and quaffed off half its contents.