“Yep,” Del affirmed.

“Now, look here, young feller,” his interlocutor continued, “d’ye mean to tell me you ever struck it in such-fangled way?”

“Yep.”

“Don’t believe it,” with a contemptuous shrug.

Del swallowed fast and raised his head with a jerk.  “Mr. Chairman, I rise to make a statement.  I won’t interfere with the dignity of the court, but I just wish to simply and distinctly state that after the meeting’s over I’m going to punch the head of every man that gets gay.  Understand?”

“You’re out of order,” the chairman replied, rapping the table with the caulking-mallet.

“And your head, too,” Del cried, turning upon him.  “Damn poor order you preserve.  Pocketing’s got nothing to do with this here trial, and why don’t you shut such fool questions out?  I’ll take care of you afterwards, you potwolloper!”

“You will, will you?” The chairman grew red in the face, dropped the mallet, and sprang to his feet.

Del stepped forward to meet him, but Bill Brown sprang in between and held them apart.

“Order, gentlemen, order,” he begged.  “This is no time for unseemly exhibitions.  And remember there are ladies present.”

The two men grunted and subsided, and Bill Brown asked, “Mr. Bishop, we understand that you are well acquainted with the prisoner.  Will you please tell the court what you know of his general character?”

Del broadened into a smile.  “Well, in the first place, he’s an extremely quarrelsome disposition—­”

“Hold!  I won’t have it!” The prisoner was on his feet, trembling with anger.  “You shall not swear my life away in such fashion!  To bring a madman, whom I have only met once in my life, to testify as to my character!”

The pocket-miner turned to him.  “So you don’t know me, eh, Gregory St. Vincent?”

“No,” St. Vincent replied, coldly, “I do not know you, my man.”

“Don’t you man me!” Del shouted, hotly.

But St. Vincent ignored him, turning to the crowd.

“I never saw the fellow but once before, and then for a few brief moments in Dawson.”

“You’ll remember before I’m done,” Del sneered; “so hold your hush and let me say my little say.  I come into the country with him way back in ’84.”

St. Vincent regarded him with sudden interest.

“Yep, Mr. Gregory St. Vincent.  I see you begin to recollect.  I sported whiskers and my name was Brown, Joe Brown, in them days.”

He grinned vindictively, and the correspondent seemed to lose all interest.

“Is it true, Gregory?” Frona whispered.

“I begin to recognize,” he muttered, slowly.  “I don’t know . . . no, folly!  The man must have died.”

“You say in ’84, Mr. Bishop?” Bill Brown prompted.

“Yep, in ’84.  He was a newspaper-man, bound round the world by way of Alaska and Siberia.  I’d run away from a whaler at Sitka,—­that squares it with Brown,—­and I engaged with him for forty a month and found.  Well, he quarrelled with me—­”