“Brierley—Brierley—never heard of Brierley before,” said Mr. Merl, affecting a flippant ease that was very remote from his heart.
“Better late than never, sir,” rejoined the other, coolly seating himself, and crossing his arms on his breast. “I have come here on the part of my friend Tom,—Mr. Magennis, I mean,—of Barnagheela, who told me to track you out.”
“Much obliged, I'm sure, for the attention,” said Merl, with an assumed smartness.
“That 's all right; so you should,” continued Brierley. “Tom told me that you were present at Cro' Martin when he was outraged and insulted,—by a female of course, or he wouldn't be making a complaint of it now,—and as he is not the man that ever lay under a thing of the kind, or ever will, he sent me here to you, to arrange where you 'd like to have it, and when.”
“To have what?” asked Merl, with a look of unfeigned terror.
“Baythershin! how dull we are!” said Mr. Brierley, with a finger to his very red nose. “Sure it's not thinking of the King's Bench you are, that you want me to speak clearer.”
“I want to know your meaning, sir,—if you have a meaning.”
“Be cool, honey; keep yourself cool. Without you happen to find that warmth raises your heart, I 'd say again, be cool. I've one simple question to ask you,”—here he dropped his voice to a low, cautious whisper,—“Will ye blaze?”
“Will I what?” cried Merl.
Mr. Brierley arose, and drawing himself up to his full height, extended his arm in the attitude of one taking aim with a pistol. “Eh!” cried he, “you comprehend me now, don't you?”