“Don’t be so jolly envious, Tanner,” sneered Smith. “You couldn’t have danced if you had gone.”
“Dance better than you could,” cried Barkins hotly.
“No, you couldn’t. Fancy asking a young lady to waltz, and then going dot-and-go-one round the room with your game leg.”
“You’ve a deal to talk about, Smithy; why, if you asked a lady to dance you couldn’t lift your right arm to put round her waist.”
“Couldn’t I?” cried Smith. “Look here.”
He swung his arm round me, took three steps, and dropped on to the locker, turning quite white with pain.
“Told you so,” cried Barkins, springing up. “Waltz? I should just think!—oh, murder!”
He sat down suddenly to hold his leg tightly with both hands, giving Smith a dismal look.
“Oh dear!” he groaned; “what a long time it does take a wound to get well in this plaguey country. I know that knife was poisoned.”
“Nonsense!” I cried, unable to restrain my mirth. “Why, you are both getting on famously.”