end. "Paul, boy, I'm
surprised at you. And do you know her, Baxter?"

"Just a bit, like!"

He winked at the other men.

"Oh well," said Paul, "I'll be going!"

The mutual friend laid a detaining hand on his shoulder.

"Nay," he said, "you don't get off as easy as that, my lad. We've got to
have a full account of this business."

"Then get it from Dawes!" he said.

"You shouldn't funk your own deeds, man," remonstrated the friend.

Then Dawes made a remark which caused Paul to throw half a glass of beer
in his face.

"Oh, Mr. Morel!" cried the barmaid, and she rang the bell for the
"chucker-out".

Dawes spat and rushed for the young man. At that minute a brawny
fellow with his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his trousers tight over his
haunches intervened.

"Now, then!" he said, pushing his chest in front of Dawes.

"Come out!" cried Dawes.

Paul was leaning, white and quivering, against the brass rail of the
bar. He hated Dawes, wished something could exterminate him at that
minute; and at the same time, seeing the wet hair on the man's forehead,
he thought he looked pathetic. He did not move.

"Come out, you--," said Dawes.

"That's enough, Dawes," cried the barmaid.

"Come on," said the "chucker-out", with kindly insistence, "you'd better
be getting on."

And, by making Dawes edge away from his own close proximity, he worked
him to the door.

"THAT'S the little sod as started it!" cried Dawes, half-cowed, pointing
to Paul Morel.

"Why, what a story, Mr. Dawes!" said the barmaid. "You know it was you
all the time."

Still the "chucker-out" kept thrusting his chest forward at him, still
he kept edging back, until he was in the doorway and on the steps
outside; then he turned round.

"All right," he said, nodding straight at his rival.

Paul had a curious sensation of pity, almost of affection, mingled with
violent hate, for the man. The coloured door swung to; there was silence
in the bar.

"Serve, him, jolly well right!" said the barmaid.

"But it's a nasty thing to get a glass of beer in your eyes," said the
mutual friend.

"I tell you I was glad he did," said the barmaid. "Will you have
another, Mr. Morel?"

She held up Paul's glass questioningly. He nodded.

"He's a man as doesn't care for anything, is Baxter Dawes," said one.

"Pooh! is he?" said the barmaid. "He's a loud-mouthed one, he is, and
they're never much good. Give me a pleasant-spoken chap, if you want a
devil!"

"We