“Never mind who or what I am,” cried Artingale, who felt in his excitement as if he had never spoken worse in his life; “but just you listen to me, you scoundrel. I know how you have followed and insulted those two young ladies.”
“What two young ladies? I don’t know anything about two young ladies.”
“I know that you have watched for their coming, and, knowing that they were unprotected, you have tried to alarm them into giving you money, I suppose, and so far you have escaped the police.”
“Ho!” said the fellow, making Artingale’s foot rise and fall, as he indulged in a rumbling chuckle; “it’s a police case, then, after all? Lawford magistrates?”
“No, not now,” cried Artingale, angrily. “Keep back, Magnus, I’ll manage him,” he cried; “you’re not fit. I say, it is not a police case now.”
“Oh!” growled the fellow, laughing defiantly, “what may it be, then?”
“A thrashing, you dog, for if ever there was a time when a gentleman might dirty his hands by touching a blackguard it is now.”
“Ho! it’s a leathering is it, your lordship!”
“Yes,” cried Artingale, “it’s a thrashing now, you great hulking brute; and after that, if ever you dare approach those ladies again—if ever you speak to them, or look at them, or annoy them, directly or indirectly, either here or down at home, I’ll half kill you, and hand you over afterwards to the police.”
“Ho, you will, will you?” said the fellow, mockingly.