“Yes, and get a chill. Not if I know it you don’t.”
“Well, go to bed yourself, and then you won’t know it. I want to take a walk round the place.”
“If you put your foot outside that door to-night Lord Worthington will lose his five hundred pounds. You can’t lick any one in fifteen minutes if you train on night air. Get licked yourself more likely.”
“Will you bet two to one that I don’t stay out all night and knock the Flying Dutchman out of time in the first round afterwards? Eh?”
“Come,” said Mellish, coaxingly; “have some common-sense. I’m advising you for your good.”
“Suppose I don’t want to be advised for my good. Eh? Hand me over that lemon. You needn’t start a speech; I’m not going to eat it.”
“Blest if he ain’t rubbing his ‘ands with it!” exclaimed Mellish, after watching him for some moments. “Why, you bloomin’ fool, lemon won’t ‘arden your ‘ands. Ain’t I took enough trouble with them?”
“I want to whiten them,” said Cashel, impatiently throwing the lemon under the grate; “but it’s no use; I can’t go about with my fists like a nigger’s. I’ll go up to London to-morrow and buy a pair of gloves.”
“What! Real gloves? Wearin’ gloves?”
“You thundering old lunatic,” said Cashel, rising and putting on his hat; “is it likely that I want a pair of mufflers? Perhaps YOU think you could teach me something with them. Ha! ha! By-the-bye—now mind this, Mellish—don’t let it out down here that I’m a fighting man. Do you hear?”