“Oh, I’m foxed, am I?” said Farnaby, keeping his eyes on Peregrine’s. “I’m not so foxed but what I can see when a bird’s pressed to make him fight, and I repeat, Sir Peregrine Taverner, that money can do queer things if you have enough of it.”
“Oh, damn!” said Mr. Fitzjohn, exasperated. “Pay no heed to him, Perry.”
Peregrine, however, had not waited for this advice. As Mr. Fitzjohn spoke he drove his left in a smashing blow to Farnaby’s face, and sent that gentleman sprawling over the bench. There were a great many cheers, a shout of “A mill, a mill!” some protests from the quieter members of the audience; and the man in the drab coat, across whose knees Mr. Farnaby had fallen, demanded that the Watch should be summoned.
Mr. Farnaby picked himself up, and showed the house a bleeding nose. The same voice which had counselled Peregrine to strike shouted gleefully: “Drawn his cork! Fib him, guv’nor! Let him have a bit of home-brewed!”
Mr. Farnaby held his handkerchief to his nose and said: “My friend will call on yours in the morning, sir! Be good enough to name your man!”
“Fitz?” said Peregrine curtly, over his shoulder.
“At your service,” replied Mr. Fitzjohn.
“Mr. Fitzjohn will act for me, sir,” said Peregrine, pale but perfectly determined.
“You will hear from me, sir,” promised Farnaby thickly, and strode out, still holding his reddened handkerchief to his nose.