bor.
I am not afraid of whisky. I am not opposed to it, as an issue. In
fact, I respect it, for, personally, it has given me one peach of a
scrap--and we are quits."

The old man listened with interest.

"Ye c'n no more kape a McKim from foightin' thin ye c'n kape a dacoit
from staylin," he chuckled. "So ye tur-rned in an' give th' crayther
himsilf a foight--an' ye win ut? An' phwat does th' gir-rl think av
ut?"

"What!"

"Th' gir-rl. Is she proud av ye? Or is she wan av thim that thinks ut
aisy to quit be just lavin' ut alone? For, sure, ut niver intered th'
head av man--let alone a McKim, to tur-rn ag'in' liquor, lessen they
was a gir-rl at th' bottom av ut. An' phwin ar-re ye goin' to be
marrit? For, av she's proud av ye, ye'll marry her--but av she takes ut
as a mather av coorse--let some wan ilse git stung."

Bill regarded the old man sharply, but in his bearing was no hint of
jesting nor raillery, and the little eyes were serious.

"Yes, there _was_ a girl," said Bill slowly; "but she--she does not
know."

"So ye've had a scrap wid her, too! But, tell me ye didn't run away
from ut--ye're goin' back?" Bill made no reply, and the old man
conveyed the food to the table, muttering to himself the while:

"Sure they's more foightin' goin' on thin Oi iver thought to see ag'in.
Ut ain't rid war, but ut ain't so bad--werwolves, Moncrossen, booze,
Creed, a bit av a gir-rl somewheres, Shtromberg--th' wor-rld is growin'
bether afther all, an' Oi'm goin' to be in th' thick av ut!"

Supper over, Bill donned mackinaw, cap, and mittens.

"Phwere ye goin'?" asked Dunnigan.

"To find Creed."

"Wait a bit, 'tis early yit. In half an hour he'll be clost around
Burrage's shtove, tellin' th' b'ys about th' bur-rnt shack at
Melton's."

Bill resumed his chair.

"Oi've been thinkin' ut out," continued Daddy, between short puffs at
his cutty-pipe. "Ye'll have no fun lickin' Creed--'tis shmall
satisfaction foightin' a man that won't foight back. An-ny-how, a black
eye or a bloody nose is soon minded. An' av ye tur-rn um over to th'
authorities ye ain't got much on um, an' ye can't pr-rove phwat ye have
got.

"But listen: Creed's a dhrivlin' jobbernowl that orders his comin's be
th' hang av th' moon, an' his goin's be th' dhreams av his head. He
thinks y're dead. Now, av ye shtroll into Burrage's loike nothin' out
av th' oordinary has happened, he'll think ye're a ghost--an' th' fear
in his heart will shtay by um.

"O