Rayton averted his face.
"Do you mean that Jim has anything to do with the marks on those cards?" he asked, in a faint and unsteady voice.
"You lobster! He marks them, and he deals them!" cried Nash.
Rayton faced him.
"You are a liar," he said quietly. "Not only that, but you are a bounder. Better whip up your nag and drive away, or I'll be tempted to pull you out onto the road and give you what you need. You are a disgrace to this settlement." He stepped back to the edge of the road. "Drive along, fat head," he commanded.
But Nash did not drive along. He had a great opinion of himself—of his physical as well as his mental powers. He hung the reins on the dashboard.
"Do you mean that?" he asked. "Are you trying to insult me? Or are you drunk?"
"I am not drunk. Yes, I am trying to insult you. It is rather a difficult thing to do, I know."
"Steady, Champion!" cried Nash to his nodding horse. Then he jumped over the wheel, threw aside his hat and overcoat, and plunged at Rayton, with his fists flying. He smote the air. He flailed the sunlight. He punched holes in the out of doors. At last he encountered something hard—not with his fist, however, but with an angle of his face. With a futile sprawl, he measured his considerable length in the mud and slush of the highway. So he lay for a little while, one leg flapping, then scrambled slowly to his feet. He gazed around in a dazed way, and at last rested his glance upon Rayton.