“Tain’t me,” said Barney, grinning hugely; “it’s these here two swell mob blokes.”
There was another roar of laughter, which culminated in a shriek of delight when Barney of the black muzzle removed his pipe from his mouth, and designedly spat upon Trevor’s glossy boot.
The young man started as if he had been stung; but there was a quiet, firm pressure of his arm, and he said, in French—
“Is it much further to the course?”
As he spoke, he quietly drew a white cambric handkerchief from his pocket, carefully removed all trace of the disgusting offence from his boot, and threw the handkerchief into the road, following it up by lighting a fresh cigar.
“My! what a pity!” said the fellow, sneeringly, as he watched with curiosity the young man’s action. “I am sorry. Wouldn’t you like the handkerchief—again?”
And he pointed to a boy who had just picked it up from the road.
The pressure was again upon Trevor’s arm, but he did not speak, and the only movement was a slight twitching about the muscles of the face.
What more insult might have followed it is impossible to say, for the omnibus now stopped at a gate, and the occupants began to scramble off. Trevor rose, and waited for the gentleman called Barney to get down. But he remained; so Trevor stepped over him, and Pratt was about to follow, when the fellow thrust out his legs, and the young man tripped, staggered, and would have fallen from the omnibus but for the strong arm of his friend.
“Get down first,” said Trevor.