‘You see it’s the thafe himself, the bloody robber!’ said the Irishman, passionately, though evidently cowering under the gaze of Blodget.
‘Who told you he was a thief? Begone, sir!’ cried Blodget, ‘Mr. Monteagle, I find you in bad company. Is that an acquaintance of yours?’ continued Blodget, with a gay laugh, as he turned to our youth, and pointed at the retreating form of the Irishman.
‘Not of mine, exactly,’ said the youth placing considerable emphasis on the word.
‘Oh—yes—a-hem. I have known the rascal some two or three months. We had his services in cleaning out a cellar and on several other occasions. Devil take the fellow—did he hurt you much?’
‘Better ask if I hurt him,’ returned the youth, ‘for I think he would have carried away a piece of malleable metal with him, but for your opportune deliverance.’
‘If he had not been too quick for you—he’s dexterous in the use of the knife.’
‘Is he, indeed?’
‘You wonder how I found out that fact. I have heard of his encounters with the natives. His name is James, commonly called Jamie, and there are many stories extant as to his prowess.’
‘Strange he should have taken so much pains to insult me,’ said Monteagle.
‘He seemed to have something against you,’ answered Blodget. ‘Cannot you remember of ever seeing him before?’