“Mumps is exactly—”
“Klepper,—remember, he's Klepper,” said Grog, mildly.
“Klepper, to be sure,—how can I forget it?”
“I hope that fellow Conway is off,” said Grog.
“Yes, he started by the train for Liege,—third class too,—must be pretty hard up, I take it, to travel that way.”
“Good enough for a fellow that has been roughing it in the ranks these two years.”
“He's a gentleman, though, for all that,” broke in Beecher.
“And Strawberry ran at Doncaster, and I saw him t' other day in a 'bus. Now, I 'd like to know how much better he is for having once been a racer?”
“Blood always tells—”
“In a horse, Beecher, in a horse, not in a man. Have n't I got a deal of noble blood in my veins?—ain't I able to show a thoroughbred pedigree?” said he, mockingly. “Well, let me see the fellow will stand at eight paces from the muzzle of a rifle-pistol more cool, or who'll sight his man more calm than I will.” There was a tinge of defiance in the way these words were said that by no means contributed to the ease of him who heard them.