“Silence yourself, buffoon!” retorted Distin, sharply, and poor Macey sank down in his chair, startled, or assuming to be.
“No, Mr Gilmore,” said Distin, haughtily, “you are not Vane Lee, you said, and—and what?”
“I’ll tell you,” cried the lad, with his brow lowering. “I will not sit still and let you bully me. He may not think it worth his while to hit out at a foreign-bred fellow who snaps and snarls like an angry dog, but I do; and if you speak to me again as you did just now, I’ll show you how English-bred fellows behave. I’ll punch your head.”
“No, you will not, Gil,” said Vane, half rising in his seat. “I don’t want to quarrel, but if there must be one, it’s mine. So look here, Distin: you’ve done everything you could for months past to put me out of temper.”
“He—aw!—he—aw!” cried Macey, in parliamentary style.
“Be quiet, jackass,” cried Distin; and Macey began to lower himself, in much dread, under the table.
“I say,” continued Vane, “you have done everything you could to put me out of temper, and I’ve put up with it patiently, and behaved like a coward.”
“He—aw, he—aw!” said Macey again; and Vane shook his fist at him good-humouredly.
“Amen. That’s all, then,” cried Macey; and then, imitating the rector again, “Now, gentlemen, let us resume our studies.”
“Be quiet, Aleck,” said Gilmore, angrily; “I—”