"Better give him his way, Bill," advised Nixon sotto voce, behind Ware's shoulder, "he's one bad-actor when he's pickled, if you go to cross him."
"I shan't cross him, old chap," Ware responded, a little drily, "nothing, in fact, was farther from my thoughts. How are you, Mr. Mewha?" He stepped forward, and held out a friendly hand.
"What do you-u mean," Mr. Mewha demanded, "by standin' in your tracks, like a bump on a log, after I holler 'come'. Do you know that I could bust you right in two?" Ignoring Sir William's hand, the speaker inched close, scuffing his feet ominously over the creaking boards, thrusting his chin out, glaring like a stiffened and challenging beast.
"Exactly," the word came briefly, distinctly, clear-cut as a knuckle-tap on glass. "Will you shake hands."
Often, in the days that followed, John Nixon, thoughtful in his evening chair, reflected on those four words and the way Ware said them. The inflexion was smooth and even; the tone hardly more than gentle; the expression pleasant. But the effect—which Nixon and all those who stood about felt equally with the one to whom the words were addressed—was that of a mandate. Not a foolish command, proceeding from the habit of authority, without present power to exact obedience; but the serene, confident, all-potent fiat of brotherhood. Long Tom, at the moment the sentence was uttered, was in the attitude of a great animal about to spring. His face, shining with perspiration, was pushed close to Ware's; his hands, the fingers tensed and crooked, were raised to the level of the baronet's shoulders, preparatory to gripping. The great muscles were heaved up in a mound between his shoulders, giving him a stooping aspect. His eyes held shining points, like fire-sparks.
But the effect of the words was instantaneous. Nixon nor none of those about knew why nor how. All they knew was that Tom Mewha relaxed his threatening attitude; straightened to his full magnificent six feet four; swung up a hand.
"Put it there," he said: this Peril of the west.