“Let me send for a doctor, sir,” said the dealer.
“I tell you I will not, man. Do you take me for a Greek or a Turk, or a heretic? Can’t you see that I am an Englishman, sir, one who is never beaten, and never gives up? There, go on selling your guns.”
“Oh, nonsense!” said the professor; “we cannot think of such things with you in that state.”
“State? What state, sir? Here you, Mr What’s-your-name, I beg your pardon. I ought to have known better. Not used to guns. Pens are more in my way. Confoundedly stupid thing to do. But I’ve learned more about a gun now than I should have learned in six months. I beg your pardon, sir.”
“Pray, say no more, sir,” replied the dealer; “it is not needed.”
“Yes, it is, sir,” cried the lawyer fiercely. “Didn’t I tell you I was an English gentleman. An English gentleman always apologises when he is in the wrong. I apologise. I am very sorry for what I said.”
The dealer smiled and bowed, and looked pleased as he handed the sufferer another glass of wine, which was taken and sipped at intervals between a few mild ohs! and ssfths!
“Not a bad wine this. What is it?”
“One of the Greek wines, sir.”
“Humph! not bad; but not like our port. Now, you people, go on with your business, and don’t stare at me as if I were a sick man. Here, Mr What’s-your-name, put that gun in a case, and send it round to the hotel. I’ve taken a fancy to it.”