“I 'll tell you a secret, stranger; you 'll not be your own friend if you don't speak to me in another tone of voice. I ain't used to be halloaed at, I ain't.”
“One thing at a time, sir,” said O'Shea. “When I have finished the business which brought me here, I shall be perfectly at your service.”
“Now I call that talkin' reasonable. Step inside, sir, and take a seat,” said Quackinboss, whose manner was now as calm as possible.
Whatever irritation O'Shea really felt, he contrived to subdue it in appearance, as he followed the other into the room.
O'Shea was not so deficient in tact that he could not see his best mode of dealing with the American was to proceed with every courtesy and deference, and so, as he seated himself opposite him, he mentioned the reason of his coming there without anything like temper, and stated that from a slight altercation such a difference arose as required either an explanation or a meeting.
“He can't go a-shooting with you, stranger; he 's struck down this morning,” said Quackinboss, gravely, as the other finished.
“Do you mean he 's ill?”
“I s'pose I do, when I said he was down, sir.”
“This is most unfortunate,” broke in O'Shea. “My duties as a public man require my being in England next week. I hoped to have settled this little matter before my departure. I see nothing for it but to beg you will in writing—a few lines will suffice—corroborate the fact of my having presented myself here, according to appointment, and mention the sad circumstances by which our intentions, for I believe I may speak of Mr. Layton's as my own, have been frustrated.”
“Well, now, stranger, we are speakin' in confidence here, and I may just as well observe to you that of all the weapons that fit a man's hands, the pen is the one I 'm least ready with. I 'm indifferent good with firearms or a bowie, but a pen, you see, cuts the fingers that hold it just as often as it hurts the enemy, and I don't like it.”