Mrs. Floyd was running up and down in
the hall, excitedly calling for Harriet, but the crowd was too anxious
to hear Westerfelt's reply to notice her.
"If nothing else will suit you, yes," answered Westerfelt, calmly. "I
don't think human beings ought to spill blood over a matter of
business, and I don't like to fight a man that's drinking, but since
you have behaved so in this lady's presence, I'm really kinder in the
notion."
"Come on, then," blustered Wambush. "I'm either yore meat or you are
mine." He turned to the door and pushed the crowd before him as he
stamped out of the hall into the street.
Harriet ran between Westerfelt and the door. She put her hands on his
shoulders and looked at him beseechingly. "Don't go out there," she
pleaded; "stay here and let him cool off; he is drinking! He's a
dangerous man."
He took her hands and held them for an instant and then dropped them.
"I'm afraid he's been humored too much," he smiled. "I'd never have
any respect for myself if I was to back down now. I've known his kind
to be cured by a good, sound thrashing, when nothing else would do any
good.
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