"Sir," he began again. "You have insult me. I must have s-s-satisfac-
shone. I must have your body upon the point of my sword. In my country
you would already be dead. I must have s-s-satisfac-shone."
Patsy had looked at the Cuban with a trifle of bewilderment. But at last
his face began to grow dark with belligerency, his mouth curved in that
wide sneer with which he would confront an angel of darkness. He arose
suddenly in his seat and came towards the little Cuban. He was going to
be impressive too.
"Say, young feller, if yeh go shootin' off yer face at me, I'll wipe d'
joint wid yeh. What'cher gaffin' about, hey? Are yeh givin' me er jolly?
Say, if yeh pick me up fer a cinch, I'll fool yeh. Dat's what! Don't
take me fer no dead easy mug." And as he glowered at the little Cuban,
he ended his oration with one eloquent word, "Nit!"
The bartender nervously polished his bar with a towel, and kept his eyes
fastened upon the men. Occasionally he became transfixed with interest,
leaning forward with one hand upon the edge of the bar and the other
holding the towel grabbed in a lump, as if he had been turned into
bronze when in the very act of polishing.
The Cuban did not move when Patsy came toward him and delivered his
oration. At its conclusion he turned his livid face toward where, above
him, Patsy was swaggering and heaving his shoulders in a consummate
display of bravery and readiness.
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