“Might I ask you another question?” said Tony, lowering his voice, and fixing a very quiet but steady look on the other.
“Yes, if it's a short one.”
“It's a very short one. Has no one ever kicked you for your impertinence?”
“Kicked me,—kicked me, sir!” cried the other, while his face became purple with passion.
“Yes,” resumed Tony, mildly; “for let me mention it to you in confidence, it's the last thing I mean to do before I leave London.”
“We 'll see about this, sir, at once,” cried the porter, who rushed through the inner door, and tore upstairs like a madman. Tony meanwhile brushed some dust off his coat with a stray clothes-brush near, and was turning to leave the spot, when Skeffington came hurriedly towards him, trying to smother a fit of laughter that would not be repressed.
“What's all this, Butler?” said he. “Here's the whole office in commotion. Willis is up with the chief clerk and old Brand telling them that you drew a revolver and threatened his life, and swore if you had n't an answer by tomorrow at twelve, you'd blow Sir Harry's brains out.”
“It's somewhat exaggerated. I had no revolver, and never had one. I don't intend any violence beyond kicking that fellow, and I 'll not do even that if he can manage to be commonly civil.”
“The Chief wishes to see this gentleman upstairs for a moment,” said a pale, sickly youth to Skeffington.
“Don't get flurried. Be cool, Butler, and say nothing that can irritate,—mind that,” whispered Skeffington, and stole away.