“Yes, quite ready,” said I, as I held the brimming glass straight before me.
“Here 's it, then,—
“'May every croppy taste the rope.
And find some man to hang them;
May Bagnal Harvey and the Pope
Have Heppenstal to hang them!'”
I knew enough of the meaning of his words to catch the allusion, and dashing the glass with all my force against the wall, I smashed it into a hundred pieces. Barton sprang from his chair, his face dark with passion. Clutching me by the collar with both hands, he cried out,—
“Halloo! there without, bring in the handcuffs here! As sure as my name 's Sandy Barton, we 'll teach you that toast practically, and that ere long.”
“Take care what you do there,” said Malone, fiercely. “That young gentleman is a son of Matthew Burke of Cremore; his relatives are not the kind of people to figure in your riding-house.”
“Are you a son of Matthew Burke?”
“I am.”
“What brings you here then? why are you not at home?”
“By what right do you dare to ask me? I have yet to learn how far I am responsible for where I go to a thief-catcher.”