Suppose they took it into their heads to wreck the place ?" Barbazon's muddy face got paler, but his eyes sharpened, and he leaned over the bar-counter, and said with a snarl: "Go to hell, and say what you like; and then I'll have something to say about something else, m'sieu'." Marchand was about to reply angrily, but he instantly changed his mind, and before Barbazon could stop him, he sprang over the counter and disappeared into the office behind the bar.
"I won't steal anything, Barbazon," he said over his shoulder as he closed the door behind him.
"I'll see to that," Barbazon muttered stolidly, but with malicious eyes.
The front door was flung open now, and the crowd poured into the room, boisterous, reckless, though some were only sullen, watchful and angry.
These last were mostly men above middle age, and of a fanatical and racially bitter type.

They were not many, but in one sense they were the backbone and force of the crowd, probably the less intelligent but the more tenacious and consistent.

They were black spots of gathering storm in an electric atmosphere.
All converged upon the bar.

Two assistants rushed the drinks along the counter with flourishes, while Barbazon took in the cash and sharply checked the rougher element, who were inclined to treat the bar as a place for looting.

Most of them, however, had a wholesome fear of Barbazon, and also most of them wished to stand well with him--credit was a good thing, even in a saloon.
For a little time the room was packed, then some of the more restless spirits, their thirst assuaged, sallied forth to taste the lager and old rye elsewhere, and "raise Cain" in the streets.