the fear of hell-fire is on to you.'

The men stood amazed at Sandy's sudden anger and length of speech.

'Bon; dat's good for you, my bully boy,' said Baptiste, a wiry little
French-Canadian, Sandy's sworn ally and devoted admirer ever since the
day when the big Scotsman, under great provocation, had knocked him
clean off the dump into the river and then jumped in for him.

It was not till afterwards I learned the cause of Sandy's sudden wrath
which urged him to such unwonted length of speech. It was not simply
that the Presbyterian blood carried with it reverence for the
minister and contempt for Papists and Fenians, but that he had a vivid
remembrance of how, only a month ago, the minister had got him out of
Mike Slavin's saloon and out the clutches of Keefe and Slavin and their
gang of bloodsuckers.

Keefe started up with a curse. Baptiste sprang to Sandy's side, slapped
him on the back, and called out, 'You keel him, I'll hit (eat) him up,
me.'

It looked as if there might be a fight, when a harsh voice said in a
low, savage tone, 'Stop your row, you blank fools; settle it, if you
want to, somewhere else.' I turned, and was amazed to see old man
Nelson, who was very seldom moved to speech.

There was a look of scorn on his hard, iron-grey face, and of such
settled fierceness as made me quite believe the tales I had heard of his
deadly fights in the mines at the coast. Before any reply could be
made, the minister drove up and called out in a cheery voice, 'Merry