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 But at this moment, urged by an irresistible impulse, Fabian went up to Harry Drake, and said to him in a cold tone,—

"You are wrong, sir, the winner was the Scotch sailor."

"What do you say?" he asked, in a threatening tone.

"I say you are wrong," answered Fabian quietly.

"Undoubtedly," retorted Drake, "because you bet on Wilmore."

"I was for O'Kelly, like yourself; I lost, and I have paid."

"Sir," cried Drake, "do you pretend to teach me?—"

But he did not finish his sentence, for Captain Corsican had interposed between him and Fabian, with the intention of taking up the quarrel. He treated Drake with supreme contempt, but evidently Drake would not pick a quarrel with him; so when Corsican had finished, he crossed his arms, and addressing himself to Fabian,—

"This gentleman," said he, with an evil smile, "this gentleman wants some one to fight his battles for him."

Fabian grew pale, he would have sprung at Drake, but I held him back, and the scoundrel's companions dragged him away; not, however, before he had cast a look of hatred at his enemy.

Captain Corsican and I went below with Fabian, who contented himself by saying, "The first opportunity I have, I will box that impudent fellow's ears."