“What do you call the doer of that deed, sir?
“A murderer,” said the Minor Canon.
“I am glad to hear you admit so much, sir,” retorted Mr. Honeythunder, in his most offensive manner; “and I candidly tell you that I didn’t expect it.” Here he lowered heavily at Mr. Crisparkle again.
“Be so good as to explain what you mean by those very unjustifiable expressions.”
“I don’t sit here, sir,” returned the Philanthropist, raising his voice to a roar, “to be browbeaten.”
“As the only other person present, no one can possibly know that better than I do,” returned the Minor Canon very quietly. “But I interrupt your explanation.”
“Murder!” proceeded Mr. Honeythunder, in a kind of boisterous reverie, with his platform folding of his arms, and his platform nod of abhorrent reflection after each short sentiment of a word. “Bloodshed! Abel! Cain! I hold no terms with Cain. I repudiate with a shudder the red hand when it is offered me.”
Instead of instantly leaping into his chair and cheering himself hoarse, as the Brotherhood in public meeting assembled would infallibly have done on this cue, Mr. Crisparkle merely reversed the quiet crossing of his legs, and said mildly: “Don’t let me interrupt your explanation—when you begin it.”
“The Commandments say, no murder. NO murder, sir!” proceeded Mr. Honeythunder, platformally pausing as if he took Mr. Crisparkle to task for having distinctly asserted that they said: You may do a little murder, and then leave off.
“And they also say, you shall bear no false witness,” observed Mr. Crisparkle.