“I’m not going to ask you what you mean.”
“You shall have the explanation gratis. You’ve twitted me, vulgarly enough on the loss of these——”
He signified with a fierce gesture his flapless earholes.
“Twitted?” said Tuke. “Where is the reason to twit a docked curt?”
“You’ll find they left me my teeth, by God—my teeth and my nails.”
He almost shouted—“You shall grow a love-lock—you shall grow a love-lock, sir, to hide the place that your lady mayn’t know when she whispers there!”
“What! are you going to cut off my ears?”
“Aye, you may grin your fill. You’ll grin to suffer that on an empty belly. You shall feel the hook before we land you, and grin like a sole!”
There was something so horribly relishing in the man’s tone that the listener’s heart went sick.
“Mutilation!” said he. “Beware what you say, fellow.”