The other's face had chilled.
"And what was mother's favourite brother's name—if I may ask?"
"Gordon, sir—Jacko Gordon."
"Jacko Gordon—the Horse-Gunner!" laughed the Parson. "Ha! ha! ha!"
"Did you know him, sir?"
The Parson tossed his Polly in the air, and caught her deftly.
"Did we know him? did we not? You remember Jacko Gordon, my lady?—and the sands of Calvi?"
"That was where the bully fought him!" cried Kit. "Ran him through the fore-arm when he wasn't ready."
A dark breeze swept across the other's face.
"He was ready; and it was not the fore-arm," he replied with icy chilliness. "It was the wrist; was it not, my own?" bending over his blade…. "Yes; he had a lovely wrist—until she kissed it…." He shrugged. "But what would you?—'Calves!' says he; and it was before the mess-tent—' d'you call those things? yours calves?'—'And what d'you call em yourself?' says I, mighty polite. 'Why, cows in calf!' says he, and swaggers off with a silly guffaw.