It was a little after three o'clock, and Winton was sitting at the
writing-table in the lobby of the hotel elaborating his hasty notebook
data of the morning's inspection, when a boy came in with a telegram.
The young engineer was not so deeply engrossed in his work as to be
deaf to the colloquy.

"Mr. John Winton? Yes, he is here somewhere," said the clerk in answer
to the boy's question; and after an identifying glance: "There he
is--over at the writing-table."

Winton turned in his chair and saw the boy coming toward him; also he
saw the ruffian pointed out by Biggin from the court-house steps and
labeled "Sheeny Mike" lounging up to the clerk's desk for a whispered
exchange of words with the bediamonded gentleman behind it.

What followed was cataclysmic in its way. The lounger took three
staggering lurches toward Winton, brushed the messenger boy aside, and
burst out in a storm of maudlin invective.

"Sign yerself 'Winton' now, do yet ye lowdown, turkey-trodden--"

"One minute," said Winton curtly, taking the telegram from the boy and
signing for it.

"I'll give ye more'n ye can carry away in less'n half that time--see?"
was the minatory retort; and the threat was made good by an awkward
buffet which would have knocked the engineer out of his chair if he
had remained in it.

Now Winton's eyes were gray and steadfast, but his hair was of that