“There you go again. Braggadocio costs blood, my young fellow.”
“I'm not to be bullied.”
“No; but you might be shot.”
“You 'll find me as ready as yourself with the pistol.”
“I am charmed to hear it, though I never met a fellow-brought up at a desk that was so.”
Skeff was by no means deficient in courage, and, taken with a due regard to all the conventional usages of such cases, he would have “met his man” as became a gentle-man; but it was such a new thing in his experiences to travel along in a carriage arranging the terms of a duel with the man who ought to have been his pleasant companion, and who indeed, at the very moment, was smoking his cheroots, that he lost himself in utter bewilderment and confusion.
“What does that small flask contain?” said M'Caskey, pointing to a straw-covered bottle, whose neck protruded from the pocket of the carriage.
“Cherry brandy,” said Skeff, dryly, as he buttoned the pocket-flap over it.
“It is years upon years since I tasted that truly British cordial.”
Skeff made no reply.