“No,” replied Rourke, “I’m naht.”

“Belave me,” said the stranger, “I’ll get it out av ye somehow,” but for the moment he made no move, merely hanging about in an uncertain way.  He seemed to have no definite plan for collecting the money, or if he had he had by now abandoned it.

Without paying any more attention to him, Rourke, still very irritated and defiant, returned to the fire.  He tried to appear calm and indifferent, but the ex-workman, a non-union mason, I judged, followed after, standing before him and staring in the defiant, irritating way a drunken man will, not quite able to make up his mind what else to do.  Presently Rourke, more to relieve the tedium of an embarrassing situation than anything else (a number of accusatory remarks having been passed), turned and began poking at the blaze, finally bending over to lay on a stick of wood.  On the instant, and as if seized by sudden inspiration, whether because the tails of Rourke’s long coat hung out in a most provoking fashion and suggested the thing that followed or not, I don’t know, but now the red-faced intruder jumped forward, and seizing them in a most nimble and yet vigorous clutch, gave an amazing yank, which severed them straight up the back, from seat to nape, at the same time exclaiming: 

“Ye’ll naht pay me, will ye?  Ye’ll naht, will ye?”

On the instant a tremendous change came over the scene.  It was as swift as stage play.  Instantly Rourke was upright and faced about, shouting, “Now, be gob, ye’ve torn me coat, have ye!  Now I’ll tache ye!  Now I’ll show ye!  Wait!  Get ready, now.  Now I’ll fix ye, ye drunken, thavin’ loafer,” and at the same time he began to move upon the enemy in a kind of rhythmic, cryptic circle (some law governing anger and emotion, I presume), the while his hands opened and shut and his eyes looked as though they would be veiled completely by his narrowing lids.  At the same time the stranger, apparently seeing his danger, began backing and circling in the same way around Rourke, as well as around the fire, until it looked as though they were performing a war dance.  Round and round they went like two Hopi bucks or Zulu warriors, their faces displaying the most murderous cunning and intention to slay—­only, instead of feathers and beads, they had on their negligible best.  All the while Rourke was calling, “Come on, now!  Get ready, now!  I’ll show ye, now!  I’ll fix ye, now!  It’s me coat ye’ll rip, is it?  Come on, now!  Get ready!  Make yerself ready!  I’m goin’ to give ye the lickin’ av yer life!  Come on, now!  Come on, now!  Come on, now!”

It was as though each had been secreted from the other and had to be sought out in some mysterious manner and in a circle.  In spite of the feeling of distress that an impending struggle of this kind gives one, I could not help noting the comic condition of Rourke’s back—­the long coat beautifully ripped straight up the back, its ends fluttering in the wind like fans, and exposing his waistcoat and Sunday boiled white shirt—­and laying up a laugh for the future.  It was too ridiculous.  The stranger had a most impressive and yet absurd air of drunken sternness written in his face, a do-or-die look.