"I'll bet my pile," said a rough voice, "that the gridiron bunting won't float another day in South Carolina."
"I'll go you halves on that, hoss, and you and I won't grow greyer nor we be, before Old Virginny says 'me too.'"
"Seth Rawbon, you'd better be packing your traps for Massachusetts. She'll want you afore long."
"Boys," ejaculated the last-mentioned personage, with an oath, "I left off being a Massachusetts man twelve years ago. I'm with _you_, and you know it. Let's drink. Boys, here's to spunky little South Carolina; may she go in and win! Stranger, what'll you drink?"
"I will not drink," replied a clear, manly voice, which had been silent till then.
"And why will you not drink?" rejoined the other, mocking the dignified and determined tone in which the invitation was refused.
"Look you, Mr. Harold Hare, I know you well, and I think we'll take you down from your high horse before you're many hours older in these parts. Boys, let's make him drink to South Carolina."
"He's an abolitionist; just the kind that'll look a darned sight more natural in a coat of tar and feathers. Cut out his heart and you'll find John Brown's picture there as large as life."
At the mention of Harold's name, Arthur and Beverly had started up simultaneously, and throwing open the bar-room door, entered hastily. Harold had risen from his seat and stood confronting Rawbon with an air in which anger and contempt were strangely blended. The latter leaned with awkward carelessness against the counter, sipping a glass of spirits and water with a malicious smile.
"You are an insolent scoundrel," said Harold, "and I would horsewhip you, if you were worth the pains."
Rawbon looked around and for a second seemed to study the faces of those about him. Then lazily reaching over toward Harold, he took him by the arm and drew him toward the counter.
"Say, you just come and drink to South Carolina."
The heavy horsewhip in Harold's hand rose suddenly and descended like a flash. The knotted lash struck Rawbon full in the mouth, splitting the lips like a knife. In an instant several knives were drawn, and Rawbon, spluttering an oath through the spurting blood that choked his utterance, drew a revolver from its holster at his side.