"That's more than you can do just at present, eh, Crosbie?" And then Mr. Butterwell tittered. "But how on earth did it happen? The paper says that you pretty well killed the fellow who did it."
"The paper lies, as papers always do. I didn't touch him at all."
"Didn't you, though? I should like to have had a poke at him after getting such a tap in the face as that."
"The policemen came, and all that sort of thing. One isn't allowed to fight it out in a row of that kind as one would have to do on Salisbury heath. Not that I mean to say that I could lick the fellow. How's a man to know whether he can or not?"
"How, indeed, unless he gets a licking,—or gives it? But who was he, and what's this about his having been scorned by the noble family?"
"Trash and lies, of course. He had never seen any of the De Courcy people."
"I suppose the truth is, it was about that other—eh, Crosbie? I knew you'd find yourself in some trouble before you'd done."
"I don't know what it was about, or why he should have made such a brute of himself. You have heard about those people at Allington?"
"Oh, yes; I have heard about them."
"God knows, I didn't mean to say anything against them. They knew nothing about it."