Almost under Morgan’s nose he drew from his satin waistcoat-pocket a snuff-box wrought in gold by a master craftsman. With the tips of his delicate fingers he daintily pinched a few grains of the evil-smelling powder and placed it to his nostrils.
Morgan sneezed.
The Coxcomb stepped hurriedly aside with a prodigious oath as the door of the Inn swung open.
Robert Evans stalked out into the night, his cap pulled over his ears, his fur cape wrapped tight about his shoulders. The Coxcomb greeted him with a condescending smile and extended his snuff-box.
The giant waved it aside with a gesture of dignity and scorn.
“No, sir,” he said, shortly; “if the good Lord had intended my nose for a dirt-box, he would have put it on upside down!”
Master Knickerbocker laughed, though Evans had not intended to be funny.
“Egad! A very good sally!” he drawled. “Yet I but tried to show my friendliness.”
“’Tis a pity you had not tried to show it earlier in the evening,” returned Evans, gruffly, as he mounted his horse and rode away.
Good Dame Evans would have no calico gown from Boston, that was sure, and ’twas money she’d saved for years from her cheese and butter sales, and kept in an old bee-hive in the attic, saying no word to anyone of it.