"This is your gratitude to the clergyman," he said.
Sundry further snorts and sniggers went round the tables.
"There's not a man of you who is not beholden to Parson Christian," said Hugh, sternly. He twisted sharply round upon one graybeard whose laugh still rumbled between his teeth. "Reuben Rae, who nursed your sick wife? John Proudfoot," to the blacksmith, "what about your child down with the fever?" His quick eye traversed the parlor, and more than one lusty crony was fain to bury his face in his breast. "Yet you laugh, brave fellows as you are, when the good man's house is broken into by a thief."
Drayton took a swift stride toward him.
"Drop it, and quick!" he shouted.
Hugh Ritson governed himself with an effort.
"I'm not here to brawl," he said quietly.
"Pigeon-livered blatherskite!—that's what I call ye—d'ye hear?" said Drayton.
Hugh's face flinched, but he turned on his heel, and was on the road at the next instant.
Drayton followed him out, laughing boisterously. Hugh made one quick step backward and shut the door; then he turned about on Drayton, whose cruel face could be dimly seen in the hazy red light that came through the blinds.