“I said I 'd kick him,” said Tony, calmly.
“Kick Willis?” said my Lord, with a forced gravity, which could not, however, suppress a laughing twinkle of his keen gray eyes,—“kick Willis?”
“Yes, my Lord; he does not attempt to deny it.”
“What's your name, sir,” asked my Lord.
“Butler,” was the brief reply.
“The son of—no, not son—but relative of Sir Omerod's?” asked his Lordship again.
“His nephew.”
“Why, Sir Harry Elphinstone has asked me for something for you. I don't see what I can do for you. It would be an admirable thing to have some one to kick the porters; but we have n't thought of such an appointment,—eh, Baynes? Willis, the very first; most impudent dog! We want a messenger for Bucharest, Brand, don't we?”
“No, my Lord; you filled it this morning,—gave it to Mr. Beed.”
“Cancel Beed, then, and appoint Butler.”