“The Swan, sir!” cried the beadle, aghast,—“the Swan never demeaned himself by such d—d broad Scotch as that!”
“The Tweed has its swans as well as the Avon, Mr. Peacock.”
“St—st—hush—hush-h—u—sh!” whispered the beadle in great alarm, and eying me, with savage observation, under his corked eyebrows. Then, taking me by the arm, he jerked me away. When he had got as far as the narrow limits of that little stage would allow, Mr. Peacock said,—
“Sir, you have the advantage of me; I don’t remember you. Ah! you need not look—by gad, sir, I am not to be bullied—it was all fair play. If you will play with gentlemen, sir, you must run the consequences.”
I hastened to appease the worthy man.
“Indeed, Mr. Peacock, if you remember, I refused to play with you; and so far from wishing to offend you, I now come on purpose to compliment you on your excellent acting, and to inquire if you have heard anything lately of your young friend Mr. Vivian.”
“Vivian? Never heard the name, sir. Vivian! Pooh, you are trying to hoax me; very good!”
“I assure you, Mr. Peac—”
“St—st—How the deuce did you know that I was once called Peac—, that is, people called me Peac—. A friendly nickname, no more. Drop it, sir, or you ‘touch me with noble anger’!”
“Well, well; ‘the rose by any name will smell as sweet,’ as the Swan, this time at least, judiciously observes. But Mr. Vivian, too, seems to have other names at his disposal. I mean a young, dark, handsome man—or rather boy—with whom I met you in company by the roadside, one morning.”