"Paul, boy, I'm surprised at you.

And do you know her, Baxter ?" "Just a bit, like!" He winked at the other men.
"Oh well," said Paul, "I'll be going!" The mutual friend laid a detaining hand on his shoulder.
"Nay," he said, "you don't get off as easy as that, my lad.

We've got to have a full account of this business." "Then get it from Dawes!" he said.
"You shouldn't funk your own deeds, man," remonstrated the friend.
Then Dawes made a remark which caused Paul to throw half a glass of beer in his face.
"Oh, Mr.Morel!" cried the barmaid, and she rang the bell for the "chucker-out".
Dawes spat and rushed for the young man.

At that minute a brawny fellow with his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his trousers tight over his haunches intervened.
"Now, then!" he said, pushing his chest in front of Dawes.
"Come out!" cried Dawes.
Paul was leaning, white and quivering, against the brass rail of the bar.

He hated Dawes, wished something could exterminate him at that minute; and at the same time, seeing the wet hair on the man's forehead, he thought he looked pathetic.