ere sitting on the benches that ran round
the room, or lounging against the bar singing, talking, blaspheming. At
the sight of Macdonald Dubh and his men there fell a dead silence, and
then growls of recognition, but Murphy was not yet ready, and roaring
out "Dh-r-r-i-n-k-s," he seized a couple of his men leaning against the
bar, and hurling them to right and left, cried, "Ma-a-ke room for yer
betthers, be the powers! Sthand up, bhoys, and fill yirsilves!"

Black Hugh and his men lined up gravely to the bar and were straightway
surrounded by the crowd yelling hideously. But if Murphy and his gang
thought to intimidate those grave Highlanders with noise, they were
greatly mistaken, for they stood quietly waiting for their glasses to
be filled, alert, but with an air of perfect indifference. Some eight or
ten glasses were set down and filled, when Murphy, snatching a couple
of bottles from the shelf behind the bar, handed them out to his men,
crying, "Here, ye bluddy thaves, lave the glasses to the gintlemen!"

There was no mistaking the insolence in his tone, and the chorus of
derisive yells that answered him showed that his remark had gone to the
spot.

Yankee Jim, who had kept close to Black Hugh, saw the veins in his
neck beginning to swell, and face to grow dark. He was longing to be
at Murphy's throat. "Speak him fair," he said, in a low tone, "there's
rather a good string of 'em raound." Macdonald Dubh glanced about him.
His eye fell on his boy, and for the first time his face became anxious.
"Ranald," he said, angrily, "take yourself out of this. It is no place
for you whatever." The boy, a slight lad of seventeen, but tall and
well-knit, and with his father's fierce, wild, dark face, hesitated.

"Go," said his father, giving him a slight cuff.

"Here, boy!" yelled LeNoir, catching him by the arm and holding the
bottle to his mouth, "drink." The boy took a gulp, choked, and spat
it out. LeNoir and his men roared. "Dat good whiskey," he cried, still
holding the boy. "You not lak dat, hey?"

"No," said the boy, "it is not good at all."

"Try heem some more," said LeNoir, thrusting the bottle at him again.

"I will not," said Ranald, looking at LeNoir straight and fearless.

"Ho-ho! mon brave enfant! But you have not de good mannere. Come,
drink!" He caught the boy by the back of the neck, and made as if to
pour the whiskey down his throat. Black Hugh, who had been kept back by
Yankee Jim all this time, star