“Well, that certainly was hard,” said Vance, with a droll twinkle of his eye,—“I call that very hard.”
“So do I, after the language he used to me, saying all the while, 'I'm no duellist,—I'm not for a saw-pit, with coffee and pistols for two,'—and all that vulgar slang about murder and such-like.”
“And was he much hurt?”
“No; not much. It was only his collar-bone and one rib, I think,—I forget now,—for I had to go over to Skye, and stay there a good part of the summer.”
“Mr. Blount, take down this gentleman's address, and show him where he is to wait; and don't—” Here he lowered his voice, so that the remainder of his speech was inaudible to Tony.
“Not if I can help it, sir,” replied Blount; “but if you knew how hard it is!”
There was something almost piteous in the youth's face as he spoke; and, indeed, Vance seemed moved to a certain degree of compassion as he said, “Well, well, do your best,—do your best, none can do more.”
“It's two o'clock. I 'll go out and have a cigar with you, if you don't mind,” said Blount to Tony. “We 're quite close to the Park here; and a little fresh air will do me good.”
“Come along,” said Tony, who, out of compassion, had already a sort of half-liking for the much-suffering young fellow.
“I wish Skeffy was here,” said Tony, as they went downstairs.