While the bar keeper was deftly shaking up the desired drink, the men before the counter drew further away from the stranger, and some of them began a whispered conversation. The last arrival eyed them with a sneer of contempt, and said to the bar keeper, as he gulped down his drink: "Your coves act like scared kites. Probably they ain't used to good society." "See here, my friend," spoke a blustering fellow, advancing toward him, "you made a little mistake. This 'ere ain't a tramps' lodgin' house." "Ain't it?" queried the stranger; "then what the Moses are _you_ doin' here?" "You'll swallow _that_, my hearty!" "When?" The stranger threw himself into an attitude of defence and glared defiance at his opponent. "Wax him, Charley!" "Let's fire him out!" "Hold on gentlemen; fair play!" "I'll give you one more chance," said the blusterer. "Ask my pardon and then mizzle instantly, or I'll have ye cut up in sections as sure as my name's Rummey Joe." The half intoxicated man was no coward. Evidently he was ripe for a quarrel. "I intend to stop here!" he cried, bringing his fist down upon the counter with a force that made it creak. "I'm goin' to stay right here till the old Nick comes to fetch me. And I'm goin' ter send your teeth down your big throat in three minutes." There was a chorus of exclamations, a drawing of weapons, and a forward rush. Then sudden silence. The man who had lately ordered drinks for the crowd, was standing between the combatants, one hand upon the breast of the last comer, the other grasping a pistol levelled just under the nose of Rummey Joe. "Drop yer fist, boy! Put up that knife, Joe! Let's understand each other." Then addressing the stranger, but keeping an eye upon Rummey Joe, he said: "See here, my hearty, you don't quite take in the siteration. This is a sort of club house, not open to the general public. If you want to hang out here, you must show your credentials." The stranger hesitated a moment, and then, without so much as a glance at his antagonist, said: "_Your_ racket is fair enough. I know where I am, and ye've all got a right to see my colors. I'll show ye my hand, and then"--with a baleful glare at Rummey Joe--"I'll settle with _that_ blackguard." Advancing to one of the tables, he deliberately lifted his foot and, resting it upon the table top, rolled up the leg of his trousers, and pulled down a dirty stocking over his low shoe. "There's my passport, gentlemen." They crowded about him and gazed upon the naked ankle, that bore the imprint of a broad band, sure indication that the limb had recently been decorated with a ball and chain. "And now," said the ex-convict, turning fiercely, "I'll teach you the kind of a tramp I am, Mr. Rummey Joe!" Before a hand or voice could be raised to prevent it, the two men had grappled, and were struggling fiercely for the mastery. "Give them a show, boys!" some one said. [Illustration: "There's my passport, gentlemen."--page 56.]