“You shall see,” answered the Doctor, his irritation augmenting fearfully.
Vitriol Bob made no further observation upon the subject; and the two miscreants walked on, side by side, until they reached the Green Man at Blackheath.
There was no tavern—no beer-shop open; and both were thirsty, alike with fatigue and the workings of evil passions.
Seating himself upon a bench fixed against the wall of a public-house, Jack Rily could not help gnashing his teeth with rage; and as he maintained his looks fixed upon the countenance of his enemy, his eyes glared with a savage and ferocious malignity. The moon-light enabled Vitriol Bob to catch the full significancy of that expression which distorted the Doctor’s features; and, sitting down close by his side, he said, “You are growing desperate now, Jack: I knowed I should disturb your coolness and composure before long.”
“By God! you’re right, my man!” ejaculated the Doctor, unable to restrain his irritation. “I had no enmity against you at first—I would have shaken hands with you and been as good friends as ever—aye, and have given you more money than you’ve ever yet seen in all your life,—given it to you as a present! But now I hate and detest you—I loathe and abhor you! Damnation! I could stick my knife into you this very minute!”
“Two can play at that game,” returned Vitriol Bob, savagely. “But remember that we’re talking tolerably loud just underneath the windows of this ’ere public; and I don’t feel at all inclined to be baulked of the satisfaction——”
“Of a last and desperate struggle, eh?” exclaimed the Doctor, starting up. “Well—we will not delay it much longer. Come along:—it is pretty near time that this child’s play was put an end to—I am getting sick of it.”
“Bless ye, I’ve no such excitement,” said Vitriol Bob, rising from the bench and again placing himself by the side of his companion: “I rayther like it than anythink else. We’ve had a nice walk—plenty of refreshments—and now and then a cozie little bit of chat—besides the advantage of hearing them political sermons in at the Bengal Arms: and so I don’t think you can say we’ve spent the time wery disagreeably.”
All this was said to irritate the Doctor still more; for Vitriol Bob, well acquainted with the disposition of his enemy, knew that when once he was thus excited it was impossible for him to regain his composure.
Jack Rily made no answer—but continued his way in silence, weariness gaining upon his body as rapidly as bitter ferocity was acquiring a more potent influence over his mind.