The navvy leaned across the counter and grinned derisively.
He never grinned again—at least, not under similar circumstances. With amazing swiftness the barman whipped out a large pewter pot from under the counter and struck him a swinging blow across the face, sending him to the floor with a thud that shook the building.
"That's for your cheek," he remarked.
Then he coolly picked up the cloth and began to polish the tankard. "That's the worst o' them dirty faces," he observed. "Spoils the silver."
An awe-struck silence fell upon us all, while the navvy rose up slowly with the brand of can upon his cheek. I do not know how to spell the words, or I would tell you what he said. When he had done the barman eyed him critically.
"I ain't got much time to spare for pleasure," he replied, "but if yer likes to step round to the yard be'ind, we'll give that there mark a bit o' company."
The navvy's eyes glistened, and the whole tavern, with the exception of Billy Borndrunk, rose joyously to the suggestion.
The barman walked to the side door and called his wife.
"Annie," he said, "just look after the bar while I show these gen'lemen our backyard."
We all trooped out, leaving Billy Borndrunk in sole possession. It seemed a shame that he should miss the fight, but it would have taken some hours to wake him up, and by that time everything would have been over.