Now, these four retorts arose from Mr. Giles’s taunt; and Mr. Giles’s taunt had arisen from his indignation at having the responsibility of going home again, imposed upon himself under cover of a compliment. The third man brought the dispute to a close, most philosophically.
“I’ll tell you what it is, gentlemen,” said he, “we’re all afraid.”
“Speak for yourself, sir,” said Mr. Giles, who was the palest of the party.
“So I do,” replied the man. “It’s natural and proper to be afraid, under such circumstances. I am.”
“So am I,” said Brittles; “only there’s no call to tell a man he is, so bounceably.”
These frank admissions softened Mr. Giles, who at once owned that he was afraid; upon which, they all three faced about, and ran back again with the completest unanimity, until Mr. Giles (who had the shortest wind of the party, as was encumbered with a pitchfork) most handsomely insisted on stopping, to make an apology for his hastiness of speech.
“But it’s wonderful,” said Mr. Giles, when he had explained, “what a man will do, when his blood is up. I should have committed murder—I know I should—if we’d caught one of them rascals.”
As the other two were impressed with a similar presentiment; and as their blood, like his, had all gone down again; some speculation ensued upon the cause of this sudden change in their temperament.
“I know what it was,” said Mr. Giles; “it was the gate.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if it was,” exclaimed Brittles, catching at the idea.