Samson South still seemed entirely unconscious of the other's
existence, though in reality no detail of the brewing storm had escaped
him. He was studying the other faces around the table, and what he saw
in them appeared to occupy him. Wilfred Horton's cheeks were burning
with a dull flush, and his eyes were narrowing with an unveiled
dislike. Suddenly, a silence fell on the party, and, as the men sat
puffing their cigars, Horton turned toward the Kentuckian. For a
moment, he glared in silence, then with an impetuous exclamation of
disgust he announced: "See here, South, I want you to know that if I'd understood you were
to be here, I wouldn't have come. It has pleased me to express my
opinion of you to a number of people, and now I mean to express it to
you in person."
Samson looked around, and his features indicated neither surprise nor
interest. He caught Farbish's eye at the same instant, and, though the
plotter said nothing, the glance was subtle and expressive. It seemed
to prompt and goad him on, as though the man had said: "You mustn't stand that. Go after him."
"I reckon"--Samson's voice was a pleasant drawl--"it doesn't make any
particular difference, Mr. Horton."
"Even if what I said didn't happen to be particularly commendatory?"
inquired Horton, his eyes narrowing.
"So long," replied the Kentuckian, "as what you said was your own
opinion, I don't reckon it would interest me much."
"In point of fact"---Horton was gazing with steady hostility into
Samson's eyes--"I prefer to tell you. I have rather generally expressed
the belief that you are a damned savage, unfit for decent society."
Samson's face grew rigid and a trifle pale. His mouth set itself in a
straight line, but, as Wilfred Horton came to his feet with the last
words, the mountaineer remained seated.
"And," went on the New Yorker, flushing with suddenly augmenting
passion, "what I said I still believe to be true, and repeat in your
presence. At another time and place, I shall be even more explicit. I
shall ask you to explain--certain things."
"Mr. Horton," suggested Samson in an ominously quiet voice, "I reckon
you're a little drunk. If I were you, I'd sit down."
Wilfred's face went from red to white, and his shoulders stiffened. He
leaned forward, and for the instant no one moved. The tick of a hall
clock was plainly audible.
"South," he said, his breath coming in labored excitement, "defend
yourself!"