Bill Stevens, whom Mary had forgotten and whom Beekman had not seen, gathered himself together, and at last stood more or less upright upon his unsteady bowed legs. His heavy body rocked uneasily, but his dark face, with its bushy brows and sinister eyes, was thrust forward glowering. One sinewy tattooed hand gripped the back of a chair; the other, knotted into a hard fist, he raised slowly toward Beekman. "It's your turn to go," he said, with a lingering oath. "This here's my gal; she b'longs to me--an' so does any money she gits." Instantly Philip was his old, assured self. That quality which was most characteristic of him, that curious mixture of much that was bitter and a little that was sweet, lighted his eyes and rang in his voice. "Where do _you_ come from?" he asked, smiling. "You look as if you got out of a trap-door, like the fairy in the play." "None o' your business where I come from," said Bill. "The point is where I'll send you, if you ain't careful." Mary, who did not like the looks of things, tried to interpose. She put the palms of her hands against the sailor's rough cheeks. "Listen, Bill," she said, "this is an old friend of mine----" "Likely!" grunted Bill. "He is, though; ain't you?" Mary appealed, with a sidelong glance at Beekman. "Certainly I am," said Philip. Stevens lowered his fist, but his red eyes remained full of hate. "I don't care who you are," he rumbled; "this here's my woman." "All right," said Beekman; "that's to your credit, I'm sure: a man is known by the woman he keeps, and you can't have a better. Only, you see, my friend----" "I ain't yer friend." Once more Mary interposed. "Just sit down, Bill," she urged. "Sit down an' have a drink with us. You can hear all we got to say." Stevens sank into a chair, but when Beekman, with Mary between them, pushed the bottle toward Bill, the sailor would have none of it. "I'll stop a bit," he said, "but I ain't goin' to drink with you, an' you needn't think it." Philip was still undisturbed. "Have it your own way," he said. "I know how it is: when a man falls in love, he swears off liquor; when he falls out of love he takes to liquor again--one sort of drunkenness is as much as he can stand at a time. I'll take a drink." Mary, who now began to fear acute trouble, slipped a hand to Stevens, but he drew away. "I think I'll smoke--if I may," continued the undisturbed Beekman. "A pipe is domestic, a cigar is philosophic, and a cigarette is a cynic: I shall have a cigarette. William?"--And he offered his silver case to the sailor. "No," said Stevens, shortly. Beekman tossed his head. Mary saw his gray eyes snap. "William," he said, "you have got to learn that the best girl is never so good as the next. And you have got to learn manners. If you won't behave yourself properly, I think you had better leave." Stevens's fingers opened and closed slowly. "You go to hell," he said.