Taking a chair at another table, he rang the bell and ordered some spirits-and-water, in payment for which he threw down a sovereign, receiving the change.
When the waiter had disappeared, and the two villains were alone together, Vitriol Bob looked maliciously at Jack Rily, as much as to say, “You see I am not without money;” and then he glanced complacently at the new suit of black which he had on.
For a change had taken place in Vitriol Bob’s appearance; and he seemed to be “in high feather,” as well as his enemy the Doctor. His huge black whiskers had been trimmed, oiled, and curled—a process that did not however materially mitigate the hang-dog expression of his countenance: for his small, reptile eyes still glared ferociously from beneath his thick, overhanging brows,—his lips were as usual of a livid hue,—and his broken nose positively appeared more flat on his face than ever.
“Your health, Jack,” said the miscreant, nodding with a kind of malignant familiarity, as he raised the steaming glass to his lips.
“Thank’ee kindly, Bob,” returned the Doctor, in a tone of mock civility.
“Now that we have met at last, old feller, we won’t part again in a hurry,” observed Vitriol Bob after a pause, during which he lighted a cigar.
“Just as you choose, my tulip,” said Rily, calmly puffing away and contemplating the thin blueish vapour which curled lazily from the bowl of his pipe out of the window.
“You and I have a score to settle, you know, Jack,” continued Vitriol Bob; “and it seems as if the Devil had thrown us in each other’s way this evenin’ on purpose to reggilate our accounts.”
“Oh! that’s the construction you put upon it, eh?” said the Doctor. “Well—just as you like.”
“You know that you used me shameful in that Stamford-street business t’other day,” proceeded Vitriol Bob.