His gray face had grown white, malignant, threatening; he advanced with a queer, sidling gait, edging forward behind the shelter of his garment as if behind a barricade.

But what challenged Gray's instant attention was the certainty of purpose, the cold, confident menace behind the old fellow's demeanor.

There was something appalling about him; he had suddenly become huge and dominant.
That he had been recognized was plain, for the armed man cried, agitatedly: "Look out, Tom! I don't want any truck with _you_." The deliberate advance continued; in a harsh voice Tom answered: "I don't allow anybody to interfere with me when I'm eating!" For every step he shuffled forward the man before him fell back a corresponding distance.
Again the newcomer rasped out his warning, and Gray, too, added his voice, saying: "Leave him to me, old man.

This is my quarrel." As he spoke he moved around the end of the table, but the mantled figure halted him with an imperious jerk of the head.

Without in the slightest diverting his steady gaze, Tom snapped: "Hands off, stranger! I won't have you buttin' in, either.