"No; that is, if you mean am I one of those who would vote the world sober by prohibiting the sale of liquor. It is a personal question which every man must meet squarely--for himself--not for his neighbor. I am not afraid of whisky. I am not opposed to it, as an issue. In fact, I respect it, for, personally, it has given me one peach of a scrap--and we are quits." The old man listened with interest. "Ye c'n no more kape a McKim from foightin' thin ye c'n kape a dacoit from staylin," he chuckled. "So ye tur-rned in an' give th' crayther himsilf a foight--an' ye win ut? An' phwat does th' gir-rl think av ut?" "What!" "Th' gir-rl. Is she proud av ye? Or is she wan av thim that thinks ut aisy to quit be just lavin' ut alone? For, sure, ut niver intered th' head av man--let alone a McKim, to tur-rn ag'in' liquor, lessen they was a gir-rl at th' bottom av ut. An' phwin ar-re ye goin' to be marrit? For, av she's proud av ye, ye'll marry her--but av she takes ut as a mather av coorse--let some wan ilse git stung." Bill regarded the old man sharply, but in his bearing was no hint of jesting nor raillery, and the little eyes were serious. "Yes, there _was_ a girl," said Bill slowly; "but she--she does not know." "So ye've had a scrap wid her, too! But, tell me ye didn't run away from ut--ye're goin' back?" Bill made no reply, and the old man conveyed the food to the table, muttering to himself the while: "Sure they's more foightin' goin' on thin Oi iver thought to see ag'in. Ut ain't rid war, but ut ain't so bad--werwolves, Moncrossen, booze, Creed, a bit av a gir-rl somewheres, Shtromberg--th' wor-rld is growin' bether afther all, an' Oi'm goin' to be in th' thick av ut!" Supper over, Bill donned mackinaw, cap, and mittens. "Phwere ye goin'?" asked Dunnigan. "To find Creed." "Wait a bit, 'tis early yit. In half an hour he'll be clost around Burrage's shtove, tellin' th' b'ys about th' bur-rnt shack at Melton's." Bill resumed his chair. "Oi've been thinkin' ut out," continued Daddy, between short puffs at his cutty-pipe. "Ye'll have no fun lickin' Creed--'tis shmall satisfaction foightin' a man that won't foight back. An-ny-how, a black eye or a bloody nose is soon minded. An' av ye tur-rn um over to th' authorities ye ain't got much on um, an' ye can't pr-rove phwat ye have got. "But listen: Creed's a dhrivlin' jobbernowl that orders his comin's be th' hang av th' moon, an' his goin's be th' dhreams av his head. He thinks y're dead. Now, av ye shtroll into Burrage's loike nothin' out av th' oordinary has happened, he'll think ye're a ghost--an' th' fear in his heart will shtay by um. "Oi'll loaf down there now, same as ivery noight. In about a half an hour ye'll come limpin' in an' ask fer Dunnigan, an' will he cook out th' sayson fer Moncrossen? 'Twill be fun to watch Creed. He'll be scairt shtiff an' white as a biled shirt, or he'll melt down an' dhribble out t'rough a crack av th' flure."