“You hit me! I’ll beat you for that—I’ll smash your face,” he said, stridently.
“Come on,” cried Adam.
At this instant the Irishman, Regan, staggered out of the crowd into the open circle. He was drunk.
“Sic ’em, Wansfell, sic ’em,” he bawled. “I’m wid yez. We’ll lick thot—loidy face—an’ ivery dom’——”
Some miner reached out a long arm and dragged Regan back.
Guerd Larey leaned over to pound with his fist on the table. A leaping glow radiated from his face, as if a genius of hate had inspired some word or speech that Adam must find insupportable. His look let loose a bursting gush of blood through Adam’s throbbing veins. This was no situation built on a quarrel or a jealous rivalry. It was backed by years, and by some secret not easily to be divined, though its source was the very soul of Cain.
“So that’s your game,” declared Guerd, with ringing passion. “You want to fight and you make this debt of yours a pretense. But I’m on to you. It’s because of the girl I took from you.”
“Shut up! Have you no sense of decency? Can’t you be half a man?” burst out Adam, beginning to shake.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Listen to Goody-Goody!... Mother’s nice boy——”
“By Heaven, Guerd Larey, if you speak of my—my mother—here—I’ll tear out your tongue!”