Jackson's face became purple and then white. His lips receded from his gums until his teeth were seen as the teeth of a wolf when it is too cowardly to attack.
“You cur!” he said through his set teeth. “I don't know what prevents me from running you through the body.”
“Do you not? I do,” said Goldsmith. He had taken the second bottle of wine off the table, and was toying with it in his hands.
“Come, sir,” said the bully after a pause; “I don't wish to go to Sir John Fielding for a warrant for your arrest for stealing my property, but, by the Lord, if you don't hand over those letters to me now I will not spare you. I shall have you taken into custody as a thief before an hour has passed.”
“Go to Sir John, my friend, and tell him that Dick Jackson, American spy, is anxious to hang himself, and mention that one Oliver Goldsmith has at hand the rope that will rid the world of one of its greatest scoundrels,” said Goldsmith.
Jackson took a step or two back, and put his hand to his sword. In a second both Baretti and Nicolo had touched the hilts of their weapons. The bully looked from the one to the other, and then laughed harshly.
“My little poet,” he said in a mocking voice, “you fancy that because you have got a letter or two you have drawn my teeth. Let me tell you for your information that I have something in my possession that I can use as I meant to use the letters.”
“And I tell you that if you use it, whatever it is, by God I shall kill you, were you thrice the scoundrel that you are!” cried Goldsmith, leaping up.
There was scarcely a pause before the whistle of the man's sword through the air was heard; but Baretti gave Goldsmith a push that sent him behind a chair, and then quietly interposed between him and Jackson.
“Pardon me, sir,” said he, bowing to Jackson, “but we cannot permit you to stick an unarmed man. Your attempt to do so in our presence my friend and I regard as a grave affront to us.”