The barman called for order, and the cockney youth, forgetting the impiety of mishandling the authority of the chair, got his five fingers into the potman’s neck-cloth. Then it was seen that Sim Crittenden, the ostler, stopping in the midst of the deep note of _Nazareth_, walked blithely out of the stables on light springy feet, passed along the highroad before the inn, and swung open the outer door of the drinking-bar. He stood before them that brawled in the tavern and grimly eyed the riot. “Who undid the potman’s necktie?” he asked in a deep growl. The cockney youth turned and put out his chin. He said he didn’t give a ruddy geranium who did it, but he was sober enough to take the whole responsibility of the humours of his particular wagonette on his own naked shoulders. He personally detested the potman’s taste in ties. The ostler knocked him down. The cockney youth got up again and lashed out with his hands--London breeds courage when it is not cowardice, to the full pitch; every cockney is a potential hero when he is not a whining thief--he was knocked down again. He scrambled up, and began to feel about dazedly for the ostler’s face, but was grown vague as to the object of his hate. The ostler put down his hands and said that the other might now walk out into the lane with the honours of war if he so willed it; and he added that he hoped he would go out like a gentleman, as he, the ostler, had a deep-seated distaste to making a mess of the bar with anyone from London. He opened the door for him with the polish of a courtier. The cockney youth honestly thought of a dignified exit, but beauty nudged at his elbow and whispered a mean design that he should kick the ostler in the waistcoat. He made the effort to this base end; was parried; and forthwith kicked for his iniquity through the door into the road, receiving a violent blow under the ear as he went. They all rose up and rushed at the ostler. But they went to their undoing. There was no refuge in retreat, no backing into the room from the smite of the great hands, for the red-bearded gardener assailed from behind--he had a heavy foot. One by one they joined him who stood in the dusk on the King’s highway. And the road was strewn with their hats. The ostler came to the doorstep and touched his forelock: “Shall I put in the horses, gentlemen?” said he. They gathered together in the grey of the twilight muttering mean vengeance, but the cockney youth who had brought them to it said commandingly, “Chuck it!” which being interpreted meant that the vulgarities were at an end. He went up and held out a hand to the ostler: “I know a better man than me,” said he--“when he hits me hard enough; and you ain’t the one I’d choose to slap my face. Hold out your olive-branch.” The ostler held out a great paw and they shook hands; the ostler’s grip, said the cockney youth, made his teeth ache. The gardener strolled about and restored the scattered hats.