as speedily as he could, and hurried on then to the round-house, where
the others were already at their dinner, with a bowl of meat and soup to
every two men.

He sat down by the side of the Irishman, who he saw had a bowl to
himself.

"Put the bowl this way," he said, coolly.

The Irishman merely looked at him contemptuously. He was evidently
astonished at his audacity, but went on eating composedly.

Salvé felt that he must not be beaten.

"Life for life, Irishman," he cried, springing to his feet, and as the
other also rose, giving him a blow in the face that sent him backwards
on the bench against the wall.

A fierce conflict now ensued. The Irishman got up like a bleeding ox,
and catching up a marline-spike that was hanging from the beam, gave
Salvé a deep wound in the cheek, the scar of which he carried his whole
life through. They drew their knives then; and Salvé's coolness and
activity soon gave him the superiority over his furious and unwieldy
opponent. His movements were like those of a steel spring; and pale and
smiling, he delivered every blow with such well-calculated effect, that
the affair ended with the Irishman, bleeding profusely and
half-unconscious, tumbling out of the narrow doorway to save himself.

There were not a few who were glad enough that the dreaded Irishman
should have been worsted, and it was to this feeling Salvé was indebted