Raikes had been touched on a tender point. In reply to a bantering remark of his, Laxley had hummed over bits of his oration, amid the chuckles of his comrades. Unfortunately at a loss for a biting retort, Raikes was reduced to that plain confession of a lack of wit; he offered combat.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Laxley, “I never soil my hands with a blackguard; and a fellow who tries to make fun of Scripture, in my opinion is one. A blackguard—do you hear? But, if you’ll give me satisfactory proofs that you really are what I have some difficulty in believing—the son of a gentleman—I’ll meet you when and where you please.”
“Fight him, anyhow,” said Harry. “I’ll take him myself after we finish the match to-morrow.”
Laxley rejoined that Mr. Raikes must be left to him.
“Then I’ll take the other,” said Harry. “Where is he?”
Evan walked round to his place.
“I am here,” he answered, “and at your service.”
“Will you fight?” cried Harry.
There was a disdainful smile on Evan’s mouth, as he replied: “I must first enlighten you. I have no pretensions to your blue blood, or yellow. If, sir, you will deign to challenge a man who is not the son of a gentleman, and consider the expression of his thorough contempt for your conduct sufficient to enable you to overlook that fact, you may dispose of me. My friend here has, it seems, reason to be proud of his connections. That you may not subsequently bring the charge against me of having led you to ‘soil your hands’—as your friend there terms it—I, with all the willingness in the world to chastise you or him for your impertinence, must first give you a fair chance of escape, by telling you that my father was a tailor.”
The countenance of Mr. Raikes at the conclusion of this speech was a painful picture. He knocked the table passionately, exclaiming: