“There,” he said, “go and sleep it off. The captain gives you good-night.”
“And a ring for the hog’s snout to-morrow!” thundered the soldier.
“Fie, sir—fie!” whispered the other. “’Tis but a tipsy boy”—and with great ado, he and the baronet made a patch of the peace, and got the squireens outside and on their horses, and saw them ride off swaying.
The wind drove with gusts of sleet at them, as they turned tail and fled into the house once more; for the night had bellied up slurred and stormy, and there was a melancholy sound in every keyhole of the hall.
They found the soldier standing up grave and lowering; but his eyes took an eager look upon their re-entrance, and he stepped up to his host with an air of impatient apology.
“I was an ass to take offence at that pigwash,” said he—“the more so as I have been poor company, I confess; and you, sir” (he turned suddenly upon Tuke), “have been the cause of it.”
“I!” exclaimed the visitor, in a voice vibrating all the harmonics of surprise.
“You, sir. Blythewood,” said the soldier, turning upon the baronet, “I make no apology for harping upon an old string in your presence. You know my monomania, and the wrack it hath made of my peace. I have waited but for those Jack-puddings to begone, to speak.”
Mr. Tuke could only stare in amazement; and “Fire away, old cock!” quoth the master of the house.
Then he added: “You’ll take beds here, the two of you, or we shall come to words.”