But Mick Connor had by now gone too far to go easy. The liquor which in the early stages of intoxication merely rendered him funny now made him boastful, and the sight of Badger, glowering in his corner over a hot whisky, provided him with a subject for his wit. Atwell tried to keep him within bounds, but Mick, once fairly nourished, could talk the cross off an ass’s back. The laughter with which his sallies at the keeper’s expense were greeted stimulated him. He plunged into wild excesses of simile, while Badger sat sipping his whisky, going redder and redder as he listened. He knew that the whole room was against him; felt that before long he must do something to assert himself. If he went out into the road he would only be laughed at, but no man could sit there listening to Mick Connor without shame. ‘Wait while I’m tellin’ you,’ said Mick. ‘Over in Connemara there used to be an old gent named Hewish, a proper old sportsman. It was he that invented that game I’ve told you of . . . spider racing, spiders burning the legs off of them on a hot plate. Cock-fightin’ too. And badger-baitin’. I’m after tellin’ you that’s the sport for a man!’ A roar of laughter greeted him. ‘And so say all of us!’ said Mick insolently, staring into Badger’s corner. Badger pushed aside the table and rose to his feet. His glass went down with a crash. ‘Oh, Mr Badger!’ Susie cried. ‘Gard! The baste’s afther turning on me!’ cried Mick. ‘All together, boys!’ Badger pushed his way through the crowd to Mick. The Irishman lowered his head and butted him in the stomach like a ram. Badger, falling, saw Abner’s smiling face and lashed out at it. The two men went down together, fighting on the floor. Susie rushed into the kitchen, calling for her father, and at the same moment the constable ran into the room. He began to try and pinion Abner, who had Badger on the floor. ‘Leave them alone,’ cried George Malpas excitedly. ‘Badger hit him first!’ He took hold of the policeman’s shoulder, and tried to pull him back. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ Bastard shouted. ‘Obstructing my duty?’ But George would not let him go. The policeman left Abner and closed with Malpas. He was the taller, but the older man. They swayed in each other’s arms and then, tripping on the leg of an overturned chair, went down together. The policeman was undermost and his head hit the stone floor with a dull thud. George, who had fallen above him, freed himself from his arms. ‘The b—’s stunned,’ said Atwell. ‘Serve him right!’ Mr Hind had appeared on the scene and was bending over the prostrate policeman. George leaned panting against the bar. ‘There’s blood coming from his ears and nose,’ Mr Hind said hoarsely. ‘The b—’s stunned,’ Atwell repeated stolidly. ‘He’s not stunned,’ said the landlord, looking up. ‘He’s dead!’