Perhaps ere this my errand may have been conjectured. If not I shall
disclose it. I left the bedside of Stormy to seek Red Ned.
I went direct to the tavern--knowing that the bully frequented the
place, and that if not there, some one could probably tell me where he
might be found.
As I entered the bar-room, a tall, slender man, with red hair, was
talking, in a loud voice, to a knot of others collected in front of the
bar.
"Let him dare tell me that it was murder," said the red-haired man, "and
I'll serve him in the same way I did the other. Murder indeed! Why,
there was a dozen men by, who can prove that I listened for ten minutes
to the man insulting and abusing me in the most beastly manner. Could
flesh and blood stand it any longer? What is a man worth who'll not
protect his character? Whoever says I acted unfair is a liar; and had
better keep his cheek to himself."
As soon as I heard the speaker's voice, and had a fair look at him, I
recognised him as an old acquaintance.
It was Edward Adkins, first mate and afterwards captain of the ship
"Lenore"--the man who had discharged me in New Orleans after the death
of Captain Hyland--the man who had accused me of ingratitude and theft!
Yes, it was Adkins, my old enemy.
I knew that _he_ was a coward of the most contemptible kind, and a bully
as well.
What I had witnessed of his conduct on the Lenore, during many years'
service with him, had fully convinced me of this. A thorough tyrant
over the crew, while cringing in the presence of Captain Hyland--who was
often compelled to restrain him, from practising his petty spite upon
those under his command. It did not need that last interview I had had
with him in Liverpool--in the house of Mrs Hyland--to strengthen my
belief that Edward Adkins was a despicable poltroon.
In answer to the question he had put: "What's a man worth who'll not
protect his character?" I walked up to him and said:--"You have no
character to protect, and none to lose. You are a cowardly ruffian.
You purposely started a quarrel with an inoffensive man; and drew your
knife upon him when you knew he was helpless with drink."
"Hell and damnation! Are you talking to me?" inquired Adkins, turning
sharply round, his face red with rage.
But his features suddenly changed to an expression that told me he
wished himself anywhere else, than in the presence of the man to whom he
had addressed the profane speech.
"Yes! I'm talking to you," said I, "and I wish all present to listen to
what I say. You are a cowardly wretch, and worse. You have taken the
life of a harmless, innocent man, unable to protect himself. You, to
talk of resenting an insult, and protecting your character--your
character indeed!"
Had we two been alone, it is possible that Adkins would not have thought
himself called upon to reply to what I had said; but we were in the
presence of two score of men, in whose hearing he had just boasted--how
he would serve the man who had been slandering him. That man was
myself.
"Now!" I cried impatient for action, "you hear what I've said! You
hear it, all of you?"
The bully had been brought to bay.
"Gentlemen!" said he, addressing the crowd who had gathered around,
"what am I to do? I was driven yesterday to an act I now regret; and
here is another man forcing me into a quarrel in the same way. Take my
advice," said he, turning to me, "and leave the house, before my blood
gets up."
"There is not the least danger of your blood getting up," said I; "your
heart's gone down into your heels. If I was so drunk, as to be just
able to keep my legs, no doubt you would have the courage to attack me.
You haven't got it now."
The greatest coward in the world can be driven to an exhibition of
courage--whether sham or real; and Adkins, seeing that he could no
longer in California lay claim to the title of a _dangerous man_,
without doing something to deserve it, cried out--
"Damnation! if you want it, you shall have it!"
As the words passed from his lips, I saw him stoop suddenly--at the same
time jerking his foot upward from the floor. I divined his intention,
which was to draw his bowie out of his boot; and while his leg was still
raised, and before he could fairly lay hold of the knife, I dealt him a
blow that sent him sprawling upon the floor. The knife flew out of his
hand; and, before he could regain his feet, I stepped between him and
the place where it was lying.
I have neglected to tell the reader, that I could no longer with
propriety be called "The _little_ Rolling Stone," though Stormy still
continued to address me occasionally by that appellation. At the time
of this--my last encounter with Adkins--I was six feet _without_ my
boots; and was strong and active in proportion. I have called it my
_last_ encounter with this ruffian--it was so. Before he was in a
position to attack me a second time, I drew my own knife from its
sheath; and threw it on the floor alongside his. I did this, to show
that I scorned to take any advantage of an unarmed man--as my cowardly
opponent had done with poor Stormy Jack. I did not at the moment think
of the wrongs Adkins had done to myself--of my imprisonment in a common
gaol--of the falsehoods he had told to Mrs Hyland--of his attempt to
win Lenore. I thought only of poor Stormy.
Adkins again rushed on me; and was again knocked down. This time he
showed a disposition for remaining on the floor--in the hopes that some
of his friends might come between us, and declare the fight to be over;
but I kicked him, until he again got up, and once more closed with me.
I met the third attack, by picking him up in my arms--until his heels
were high in the air, and then I allowed him to fall down again on the
crown of his head. He never rose after that fall--his neck was broken.
Before I left the room, every man in it came up and shook hands with
me--as they did so, telling me that I had done a good thing.
Volume Two, Chapter VIII.