"Thank you, sir," said the Scotchman; "but I don"t drink."
"Don"t drink!" exclaimed the former, in evident surprise. "What sort of a man, pray, may you be?"
"I am a temperance man," said Ferguson, adding indiscreetly, "and it would be well for you all if you would shun the vile liquor which is destroying soul and body."
"---- your impudence!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the other, in a rage. "Do you dare to insult gentlemen like us?"
"I never insult anybody," said the Scotchman calmly. "What I have said is for your good, and you would admit it if you were sober."
"Do you dare to say I"m drunk?" demanded the man, in a fury.
"Mr. Ferguson," said Tom, in a low voice, "I wouldn"t provoke him if I were you."
But the Scotchman was no coward, and, though generally prudent, he was too fond of argument to yield the point.
"Of course, you"re drunk," he said calmly. "If you will reflect, you show all the signs of a man that has taken too much liquor. Your face is flushed, your hand is unsteady, and----"
He was interrupted by a volley of execrations from the man whom he was coolly describing, and the latter, in a fit of fury, struck the Scotchman in the face. Had the blow been well directed it would, for the time, have marred the small share of personal beauty with which nature had endowed Mr. Ferguson; but it glanced aside and just struck him on his prominent cheek-bone.
"A ring! a ring!" shouted the men in the corner, jumping to their feet in excitement. "Let Jim and the Scotchman fight it out."
"Gentlemen," said Mr. Ferguson, "I don"t wish to fight with your friend.
He is drunk, as you can see plainly enough. I don"t wish to fight with a drunken man."
"Who says I am drunk?" demanded the champion of whisky. "Let me get at him."
But his friends were now holding him back. They wanted to see a square fight, according to rule. It would prove, in their opinion, a pleasant little excitement.
"I meant no offense," said Ferguson; "I only told the truth."
"You are a ---- liar!" exclaimed the man, known as Jim.
"I do not heed the words of a man in your condition," said the Scotchman calmly.
"Pull his nose, Jim! Make him fight!" exclaimed the friends of the bully. "We"ll back you!"
The hint was taken. Jim staggered forward, and, seizing the Scotchman"s prominent nose, gave it a violent tweak.
Now there are few men, with or without self-respect, who can calmly submit to an insult like this. Certainly Mr. Donald Ferguson was not one of them. The color mantled his high cheek-bones, and anger gained dominion over him. He sprang to his feet, grasped the bully in his strong arms, dashed him backward upon the floor of the barroom, and, turning to the companions of the fallen man, he said, "Now come on, if you want to fight. I"ll take you one by one, and fight the whole of you, if you like."
Instead of being angry, they applauded his pluck. They cared little for the fate of their champion, but were impressed by the evident strength of the stranger.
"Stranger," said one of them, "you"ve proved that you"re a man of honor.
We thought you were a coward. It"s a pity you don"t drink. What may your name be?"
"Donald Ferguson."
"Then, boys, here"s to the health of Mr. Ferguson. He"s a bully boy, and no coward."
"Gentlemen," said the Scotchman, "it"s a compliment you mean, no doubt, and I"m suitably thankful. If you"ll allow me, I"ll drink your health in a liquor which will not injure any one. I"ll wish you health and prosperity in a gla.s.s of cold water, if the barkeeper happens to have any of that beverage handy. Tom, join with me in the toast."
Tom did so, and the speech was well received.
"As for this gentleman," said Mr. Ferguson, addressing Jim, who had struggled to his feet, and was surveying the scene in rather a bewildered way, "I hope he won"t harbor malice; I"ve only got even with him. We may as well forgive and forget."
"That"s the talk! Jim, drink the stranger"s health!"
Jim looked a little doubtful, but when a gla.s.s of whisky was put into his hand he could not resist the seductive draft, and tossed it down.
"Now shake hands!" said one of the players.
"With all my heart," said Ferguson, and the two shook hands, to the great delight of the company.
"You got off pretty well, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom, when they retired for the night.
"Yes, my lad, better than I expected. I thought once I would have to fight the whole pack. Poor fellows! I pity them. They are but slaves to their appet.i.tes. I hope, my lad, you"ll never yield to a like temptation."
"No fear for me, Mr. Ferguson. I feel as you do on the subject."
The journey continued till one day, about noon, they reached the town of St, Joseph, popularly called St. Joe.
CHAPTER XX.
ST. JOE.
St. Joe was at that time the fitting-out point for overland parties bound for California. As a matter of course it presented a busy, bustling appearance, and seemed full of life and movement. There was a large transient population, of a very miscellaneous character. It included the thrifty, industrious emigrant, prepared to work hard and live poorly, till the hoped-for competence was attained; but there was also the shiftless adventurer, whose chief object was to live without work, and the unscrupulous swindler, who was ready, if opportunity offered, to appropriate the hard earnings of others.
"It"s a lively place, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom.
"It is, indeed, my young friend," said the cautious Scot; "but it is a place, to my thinking, where it behooves a man to look well to his purse."
"No doubt you are right, Mr. Ferguson. I have learned to be cautious since my adventure with Graham and Vincent."
"There"s many like them in the world, Tom. They are like lions, going about seeking whom they may devour."
St. Joseph could not at that time boast any first-cla.s.s hotels. Inns and lodging-houses it had in plenty. At one of these--a two-story building, dignified by the t.i.tle of "The Pacific Hotel"--our hero and his Scotch friend found accommodations. They were charged two dollars and a half per day--the same price they charged at first-cla.s.s hotels in New York and Boston, while their rooms and fare were very far from luxurious. The landlord was a stout, jolly host, with a round, good-natured face.
"You and your son will room together, I suppose," he said.
"He isn"t my son, but a young friend of mine," said Mr. Ferguson.
"I thought he didn"t look much like you," said the landlord.
"I am hard and weather-beaten, while he is young and fresh."