“I really——did not——in fact, it was very far from my intentions——” stammered the discomfited colonel, casting a glance toward the door, to ascertain if there were any possibility of escape: but, alas! that was out of the question.
“Nothing but a mating, or the most abjict apology will suffice!” vociferated Captain O’Blunderbuss, perceiving that he had completely over-awed his antagonist. “Frank, my frind, run over to our lodgings and fetch my pisthols—in the box covered with green baize, you know—and, be the power-rs! we’ll fight it out across the table, each houlding the ind of a handkerchief:—that is to say, with Mr. Scales’ lave and, per-r-mission.”
“Oh! I shan’t interfere,” said the red-faced Brother enjoying the scene as much as Mr. Frank Curtis, who rose from his chair as if to depart for the purpose of executing the little commission respecting the pistols.
“Really, gentlemen,” stammered Colonel Tickner, glancing in bewilderment and dismay from one to the other: “I—I am sure—I did not——”
“Did ye mane to insult me?” demanded the captain, brandishing the poker, while his aspect seemed to acquire increased ferocity every moment.
“No—no—certainly not,” responded the colonel, catching at the hope of extricating himself from the deadly perils which appeared to hem him in around.
“And ye acknowledge yourself to be a liar and a scounthrel?” vociferated the terrible Gorman O’Blunderbuss.
“Why, my dear sir—as for that——”
“Don’t ‘dear sir-r’ me!” interrupted the Irishman, fiercely, “Acknowledge yourself to be a liar and a scounthrel—and on my part I shall be ready to acknowledge in retur-r-n that ye’ve made such an apology as a gintleman ought under the circumstances.”
“Oh! yes—mutual concessions,” observed Frank with a wink at Mr. Scales, who could scarcely keep, his countenance through a violent inclination to laugh.