sailmaker did, as how Swope got drunk, and beat her."

The big Cockney, who had been visibly possessed by a pompous
self-importance since his elevation to the dignity of runner, saw fit
to interpose his contrary opinion of the Lady of the _Golden Bough_.
Because the man was vile, his words were vile.

"Blimme, yer needn't worrit abaht Yankee Swope's lydy, as yer call 'er.
She arn't nah bleedin' lydy--she's just a blarsted Judy. Yer got to
knock a Judy abaht, arn't yer? Hi 'arve hit straight--'e picked 'er
hoff the streets----"

The man with the scar wheeled on his heel, reached out, and grasped the
Cockney by his two wrists. I exclaimed aloud when I saw the man's full
face. There was death in it. He spoke to Cockney in a voice of cold
fury. "You lie!" he cried. "Say you lie!"

Cockney was a big man, and husky. He cursed, and struggled. But he
was a child in the grasp of that white-faced giant towering over him.
The hands I had seen gripping the rail a moment before, now gripped
Cockney's wrists in the same terrible clutch. They squeezed, as though
to crush the very bones. Cockney squirmed, and whimpered, then he
broke down, and screamed in agony.

"Ow, Gaw' blimme, let hup! Hi never meant northin'! A lie-- Ow,
yuss--a lie! She's a proper lydy-- Hi never 'eard the hother-- Gaw'
strike me blind!"

The man with the scar cast the fellow contemptuously away; and Cockney
lost no time in putting the distance of the room between them. The big