A bar ran along part of one side, and a man in a white shirt was just then engaged in hastily removing the bottles from it.

Another man, in blue shirt and duck trousers, stood beside the stove, and he held a big ax which he swung suggestively.

It was evident that several of the others were runaway sailormen, who have, since the days of Caribou, usually been found in the forefront when there were perilous wagon bridges or dizzy railroad trestles to be built in the Mountain Province.

There was, however, nothing English in their appearance.
"He wants his horse! Oh, bring it out!" sang the man with the ax.
There was a howl of approval from the cluster of men who sat on a rough fir table; but the man behind the bar raised an expostulating hand.
"Boys," he said, "you have got to be reasonable.

I bought that horse.
If the deadbeat who made the deal with me wants it back, all he has to do is to produce the money." Then Grenfell, who leaned on the table, drew himself up, and made a gesture of protest.