Part 29 (1/2)

”Thank you, sir,” said the Scotchman; ”but I don't drink.”

”Don't drink!” exclaimed the former, in evident surprise. ”What sort of a man, pray, may you be?”

”I am a temperance man,” said Ferguson, adding indiscreetly, ”and it would be well for you all if you would shun the vile liquor which is destroying soul and body.”

”---- your impudence!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the other, in a rage. ”Do you dare to insult gentlemen like us?”

”I never insult anybody,” said the Scotchman calmly. ”What I have said is for your good, and you would admit it if you were sober.”

”Do you dare to say I'm drunk?” demanded the man, in a fury.

”Mr. Ferguson,” said Tom, in a low voice, ”I wouldn't provoke him if I were you.”

But the Scotchman was no coward, and, though generally prudent, he was too fond of argument to yield the point.

”Of course, you're drunk,” he said calmly. ”If you will reflect, you show all the signs of a man that has taken too much liquor. Your face is flushed, your hand is unsteady, and----”

He was interrupted by a volley of execrations from the man whom he was coolly describing, and the latter, in a fit of fury, struck the Scotchman in the face. Had the blow been well directed it would, for the time, have marred the small share of personal beauty with which nature had endowed Mr. Ferguson; but it glanced aside and just struck him on his prominent cheek-bone.

”A ring! a ring!” shouted the men in the corner, jumping to their feet in excitement. ”Let Jim and the Scotchman fight it out.”

”Gentlemen,” said Mr. Ferguson, ”I don't wish to fight with your friend.

He is drunk, as you can see plainly enough. I don't wish to fight with a drunken man.”

”Who says I am drunk?” demanded the champion of whisky. ”Let me get at him.”

But his friends were now holding him back. They wanted to see a square fight, according to rule. It would prove, in their opinion, a pleasant little excitement.

”I meant no offense,” said Ferguson; ”I only told the truth.”

”You are a ---- liar!” exclaimed the man, known as Jim.

”I do not heed the words of a man in your condition,” said the Scotchman calmly.

”Pull his nose, Jim! Make him fight!” exclaimed the friends of the bully. ”We'll back you!”

The hint was taken. Jim staggered forward, and, seizing the Scotchman's prominent nose, gave it a violent tweak.

Now there are few men, with or without self-respect, who can calmly submit to an insult like this. Certainly Mr. Donald Ferguson was not one of them. The color mantled his high cheek-bones, and anger gained dominion over him. He sprang to his feet, grasped the bully in his strong arms, dashed him backward upon the floor of the barroom, and, turning to the companions of the fallen man, he said, ”Now come on, if you want to fight. I'll take you one by one, and fight the whole of you, if you like.”

Instead of being angry, they applauded his pluck. They cared little for the fate of their champion, but were impressed by the evident strength of the stranger.

”Stranger,” said one of them, ”you've proved that you're a man of honor.

We thought you were a coward. It's a pity you don't drink. What may your name be?”

”Donald Ferguson.”