“Sir, none but a coward would speak as you are speaking,” cried Tom Long, indignantly.
“Oh, wouldn’t he?” said Bob. “Well, then, I suppose I’m a coward, for hang me if we don’t get running risks enough from these coffee-coloured fellows, without trying it on among ourselves.”
“I thought you more of a gentleman,” said Tom Long, contemptuously.
“Oh, you did, did you?” said Bob; “and I’m a coward, am I? Well, look here, my lad, it’s too hot now, but if you like to come on board to-night, or to-morrow morning, and take off your jacket like a man, I’ll have it out with you in the gun-room, and old Dick to see fair, and you can bring Private Gray or Sergeant Lund.”
“What do you mean?” said Tom Long, haughtily; “swords or pistols, sir?”
“Do I mean swords or pistols, sir?” said Bob, imitating the other’s pompous way; “no, sir, I don’t mean either. I reserve those lethal weapons, sir, for Her Majesty’s enemies, sir, as an officer and a gentleman should; and when I fall out with a friend, I punch his head with my fist—like a man.”
“Like a man!” said Tom Long, in tones of disgust; “like a schoolboy or a blackguard.”
“No, sir,” said Bob, still mimicking his companion; “the schoolboy or man who uses his fists is to my mind not half such a blackguard as the gentleman who tries to kill a fellow in cold blood, and calls it on account of his honour.”
“The old contemptible argument,” said Tom Long, sneering. “No one but a coward would take refuge behind such excuses.”
“Then I’m a coward!” said Bob, cocking his heels up on a chair, and sticking his hands in his pockets. “All right: I’m a coward; and as we used to say at school, ‘give me the coward’s blow,’ and if you do, Tom Long, you see if I don’t punch your head.”