Tarbox, too, was a Saxon six-footer of thirty. But he had sagged one inch for want of self-respect. He had spoilt his color and dyed his moustache. He wore foxy-black pantaloons tucked into red-topped boots, with the name of the maker on a gilt shield. His red-flannel shirt was open at the neck and caught with a black handkerchief. His damaged tile was in permanent crape for the late lamented Poole.
“We allow,” says Bill, in a tone half-way between Lablache’s De profundis and a burglar’s bull-dog’s snarl, “that we’ve did our work as good as need to be did. We ’xpect we know our rights. We ha’n’t ben treated fair, and I’m damned if we’re go’n’ to stan’ it.”
“Stop!” says Wade. “No swearing in this shop!”
“Who the Devil is go’n’ to stop it?” growled Tarbox.
“I am. Do you step back now, and let some one come out who can talk like a gentleman! “
“I’m damned if I stir till I’ve had my say out,” says Bill, shaking himself up and looking dangerous.
“Go back!”
Wade moved close to him, also looking dangerous.
“Don’t tech me!” Bill threatened, squaring off.
He was not quick enough. Wade knocked him down flat on a heap of moulding-sand. The hat in mourning for Poole found its place in a puddle.
Bill did not like the new Emperor’s method of
