“Very likely they may be, but what you’ve got to get into a passion for because the swell has strawberry—”
“Ignorant wretch!” said Mr. Liversedge, quite agitated. “Who but a Duke—stay, does not a Marquis also—? But we are not concerned with Marquises, and we need not waste time on that!”
“You’re right, Joe,” said Mr. Shifnal. “He is lushy! Now, don’t you go a-working of yourself into a miff, Sam! No one won’t waste any time on Markisses!”
“You are a fool!” said Mr. Liversedge. “These leaves stand in allusion to the rank of that greenhorn, and this letter S stands for Sale! That greenhorn was none other than his Grace the Duke of Sale—whom Joseph, by his folly in leaving this hovel to feed a herd of grunting swine, has let slip through his bungling fingers!”
Mr. Mimms and Mr. Shifnal sat staring at him in blank amazement. Mr. Mimms found his tongue first. “If you ain’t lushy, Sam, you’re dicked in the nob!” he said.
Mr. Liversedge paid no attention to him. A frown wrinkled his brow. “Wait!” he said. “Let us not leap too hurriedly to conclusions! Let me consider! Let me ponder this!”
Mr. Mimms showed no desire to leap to any other conclusion than that his relative had taken leave of his senses, and said so. He filled up his glass, and recommended Mr. Shifnal to do the same. For once, Mr. Shifnal did not respond to this invitation. He was watching Mr. Liversedge, quick speculation in his sharp face. When Mr. Mimms would have broken in rudely upon his brother’s meditations, he hushed him, requesting him briefly to dub his mummer. “You let Sam be!” he said. “Up to every rig and row intown, he is!”
“To whom,” demanded Mr. Liversedge, suddenly, “would young Ware turn in his dilemma? To his father? No! To his cousin, Joseph! To his noble and affluent cousin, the Duke of Sale! You saw him; you even conversed with him: was not his amiability writ large on his countenance? Would he spurn an indigent relative in his distress? He would not!”
“I don’t know what he done to no relative,” responded Mr. Mimms, “but I know what he done to you, Sam!”
Mr. Liversedge brushed this aside. “You are a sapskull,” he said. “What he did to me was done for his cousin’s sake. I bear him no ill-will: not the smallest ill-will! I am not a man of violence, but in his shoes I might have been tempted to do as he did. But we run on too fast! This is not proved. And yet—Joseph, it comes into my mind that he told me he was putting up at the White Horse, and this gives me to doubt. Would he do so if he were indeed the man I believe him to be? One would say no. Again we go too fast! He did not wish to be known: a very understandable desire! For what must have been the outcome had he come to me in his proper person? What, Joseph, if a chaise with a ducal crest upon the panel had driven up to this door? What if a card had been handed to you bearing upon it the name and style of the Duke of Sale? What then?”