“I am still not quite satisfy,” said Leronde thoughtfully. “I ought to have been first, and take your shallenge to him.”
“But what does it matter if we are to meet?”
“But you vas ze insulte.”
“Indeed!” said Armstrong, with a bitter smile. “Opinions are various, boy. But let that rest. Help me to lie down on that couch, and give me a cigar.”
Leronde obeyed, watching his friend anxiously.
“You vill not be vell enough to fight.”
“I will be well enough to fight, man,” cried Armstrong savagely. “There: wait a bit. It is too soon to follow them yet;” and for a while they sat and smoked, till Leronde burst out with—
“I am so glad you go to fight, my dear Dale.”
“Are you?” said Armstrong gruffly.
“Yes; it do me good that you are ready to fight M’sieu le Conte like a gentleman. I thought all Englishmans degrade themself viz le boxe. Bah! it is not good. You have ze muscle great, but so have ze dustman and ze navigator; let them fight—so.”