"Well, quite well," cried Borodaile. "Mr. Linden, I think?—I thank you cordially for your assistance; but the dog, the rascal, where is he?"
"Gone," said Clarence.
"Gone! Where—where?" cried Borodaile; "that living man should insult me, and yet escape!"
"Which way did the fellow go?" said the watchman, anticipative of half-a-crown. "I will run after him in a trice, your honour: I warrant I nab him."
"No—no—" said Borodaile, haughtily, "I leave my quarrels to no man; if I could not master him myself, no one else shall do it for me. Mr. Linden, excuse me, but I am perfectly recovered, and can walk very well without your polite assistance. Mr. Watchman, I am obliged to you: there is a guinea to reward your trouble."
With these words, intended as a farewell, the proud patrician, smothering his pain, bowed with extreme courtesy to Clarence, again thanked him, and walked on unaided and alone.
"He is a game blood," said the watchman, pocketing the guinea.
"He is worthy his name," thought Clarence; "though he was in the wrong, my heart yearns to him."
CHAPTER XXXV.
Things wear a vizard which I think to like not.—Tanner of Tyburn.