Ralph affected to smile, and once more inquired from whom Mr. Mantalini had derived his information.
‘From Pyke; and a demd, fine, pleasant, gentlemanly dog it is,’ replied Mantalini. ‘Demnition pleasant, and a tip-top sawyer.’
‘And what said he?’ asked Ralph, knitting his brows.
‘That it happened this way—that your nephew met him at a coffeehouse, fell upon him with the most demneble ferocity, followed him to his cab, swore he would ride home with him, if he rode upon the horse’s back or hooked himself on to the horse’s tail; smashed his countenance, which is a demd fine countenance in its natural state; frightened the horse, pitched out Sir Mulberry and himself, and—’
‘And was killed?’ interposed Ralph with gleaming eyes. ‘Was he? Is he dead?’
Mantalini shook his head.
‘Ugh,’ said Ralph, turning away. ‘Then he has done nothing. Stay,’ he added, looking round again. ‘He broke a leg or an arm, or put his shoulder out, or fractured his collar-bone, or ground a rib or two? His neck was saved for the halter, but he got some painful and slow-healing injury for his trouble? Did he? You must have heard that, at least.’
‘No,’ rejoined Mantalini, shaking his head again. ‘Unless he was dashed into such little pieces that they blew away, he wasn’t hurt, for he went off as quiet and comfortable as—as—as demnition,’ said Mr Mantalini, rather at a loss for a simile.
‘And what,’ said Ralph, hesitating a little, ‘what was the cause of quarrel?’
‘You are the demdest, knowing hand,’ replied Mr. Mantalini, in an admiring tone, ‘the cunningest, rummest, superlativest old fox—oh dem!—to pretend now not to know that it was the little bright-eyed niece—the softest, sweetest, prettiest—’