“Mr. Jericho, I am corrected, and very properly. A thousand pardons. I bring this from my friend Colonel Bones,” and fixing his eye like a snake upon Jericho, Thrush discharged a letter upon him.
Jericho read the letter. With a stony face of contempt he looked down upon it. “This is quite ridiculous,” said Jericho.
“It may be droll, devilish droll,” said Thrush. “Men differ so in their tastes. You may think a challenge a joke; may, indeed, think pistols when they click, merely diseurs de bons mots. Every man as he likes.”
“You do not intend to say, Commissioner Thrush, that this Colonel Bones—this gingerbread hero—this”—
“Colonel Bones is my friend,” said Thrush. “Colonel Bones has served her Majesty: at least, if not her Majesty, her Majesty’s uncle. It’s all in the family; just the same thing. You insulted the Colonel.”
“The fact is”—Jericho paused, but only one instant, for a lie—“The fact is, the day was hot; I had drunk too much—”
“I am sorry to hear it. For now it is impossible to accommodate matters. Now, sir, the Colonel must be a charcoal-burner; you must taste his saltpetre,” and Thrush smacked his lips, as recommending its flavour.
“Impossible to accommodate! When it was abuse in a moment of wine,” cried Jericho.
“Sir, an offence committed in wine must be between intimates a double offence; and for this reason; this iron-bound reason. It implies long-smouldering malice,” cried Thrush.
“I don’t see that,” exclaimed Jericho, becoming interested in the question. “How do you prove it?”