“Yes; his friend, a Major Colesby, boggled a bit at first Could n't see the thing in the light I put it. Asked very often 'who were you?' asked, too, 'who I was?' Good that! it made me laugh. Rather late in the day, I take it, to ask who Bob Rogers is! But in the end, as I said, it all comes right, quite right.”
“And his apology was full, ample, and explicit? Was it in writing, Rogers? I 'd like it in writing.”
“Like what in writing.”
“His apology, or explanation, or whatever you like to call it.”
“Who ever spoke of such a thing? Who so much as dreamed of it? Haven't I told you the affair is all right? and what does all right mean, eh?—what does it mean?”
“I know what it ought to mean,” said I, angrily.
“So do I, and so do most men in this island, sir. It means twelve paces under the Battery wall, fire together, and as many shots as the aggrieved asks for. That's all right, isn't it?”
“In one sense it is so,” said I, with a mock composure.
“Well, that's the only sense I ever meant to consider it by. Go back now to your tea, or your sugar-and-water, or whatever it is; and when you come home to-night, step into my room, and we'll have a cosey chat and a cigar. There 's one or two trifling things that I don't understand in this affair, and I put my own explanation on them, and maybe it ain't the right one. Not that it signifies now, you perceive, because you are here to the fore, and can set them right. But as by this time to-morrow you might be where—I won't mention'—we may as well put them straight this evening.”
“I'll beat you up, depend upon it,” said I, affecting a slap-dash style. “I can't tell you how glad I am to have fallen into your hands, Rogers. You suit me exactly.”