“Jem! Come, I say. Don’t you hear me? I beg your pardon, I say. Hang it all, old boy, do you want me to go down upon my knees.”
“No, Jack,” cried the major, stopping short and facing him, “I don’t; but you told me I’d better go.”
“Yes: in a passion; but you know I don’t mean what I say. Here, shake hands, old boy. I say, though, what a peppery old fire-eater you are!”
“Am I, Jack?” said the major, with a grim smile.
“No, no; I mean I am. Look here, old chap, I’m sure there’s a membrane, or a strap, or a nerve, or something of that sort, given way inside me. It lets my temper out, and then I say things I don’t mean.”
“It must have given way a great many years ago, Jack,” said the major, drily.
“Oh, come, Jem! Hang it all, old fellow, I’ve begged your pardon. I’ve humbled myself to you. Don’t jump on a man when he’s down. ’Tisn’t chivalrous; it isn’t indeed.”
“Then you don’t want me to go?”
“Go? Now look here, Jem, do try and be reasonable. What should I do without you?”
“Well then, I’ll stop this time; but really, Jack, if ever you insult me again like that, I can have my old chambers in St James’s, close to the club, and I shall go back to town.”