But the man restrained himself and moved to the door.

There he stood and cursed him with a violence and a venom which Dickson had not believed possible.

The full hand was on the table now.
"Ye wee pot-bellied, pig-heided Glasgow grocer" (I paraphrase), "would you set up to defy me?
I tell ye, I'll make ye rue the day ye were born." His parting words were a brilliant sketch of the maltreatment in store for the body of the defiant one.
"Impident dog," said Dickson without heat.

He noted with pleasure that the innkeeper hit his head violently against the low lintel, and, missing a step, fell down the loft stairs into the kitchen, where Mrs.
Morran's tongue could be heard speeding him trenchantly from the premises.
Left to himself, Dickson dressed leisurely, and by and by went down to the kitchen and watched his hostess making broth.

The fracas with Dobson had done him all the good in the world, for it had cleared the problem of dubieties and had put an edge on his temper.