“Never mind. I apologize; but you wouldn’t understand.”
“Understad?—understad, you conceited peddler? Lookee ’ere. Tuke. Le’s go and hunt for that skull. Ain’t you ready—ain’t you, you——”
“Oh! go to bed, Blythewood. We’ll hunt on the morrow. I’ve arranged it all. We’ll get some sleep first, man; for I’m just dropping.”
“Droppin’? You’re drunk as David’s sow, you clever man. There go away. You’re a sight to make the angels weep. I’ll have you before me to-morrer on a warra’t, by the Lord I will.”
He stopped, and struck his brow rather aimlessly.
“Angel and Dunlone!” he cried. “I forgot all about the high-stepper. Here’s a pretty host for you. I shall have to commit myself before you. Cock! the scarecrow’ll ‘drizzle’ the jade into an asylum. Tuke, d’ye hear? if I stop and join in this chase, I must sed the girl a note.”
“Well, to-morrow will do for that.”
“Curse me! What a wiggin’ I’ll get from her. You must help me out of this scrape. Let me bid ’em both to lunch at your place, to hear the result of our expedition. That’ll be a sop to the creature.”
The other hesitated. He still laboured under the excitement of his recent undertaking—still tingled with the afterglow of the late riot in his heart. He had formulated, had conceived indeed, no line of conduct for himself or Betty that should meet the occasion. He would not have her a serving drudge in his house, and beyond that one resolve all was indefinite. But he had burnt his boats behind him, and to temporize with circumstance was no longer possible. As he had made his dash for freedom, so must he continue the race recklessly.
“By all means,” he said, with a rather wild laugh. “We will dissolve the ruby in a glass of wine, and Miss Royston shall drink to the health of the ‘drizzler’ in it.”