“Three of them, right in the middle of town, if you please!” said Mr Belfort. “Thunder an’ turf, but it’s a crying disgrace! I’m saying to Proudie here that measures ought to be taken.”
Sir Anthony took out his snuff-box, and shook back the ruffles from his hand. “Oh, were you attacked?” he inquired.
“Not I. ’Twas young Merriot they set upon, as he came off from Devereux’s last night.”
The strong hand paused for a moment in the act of unfobbing the snuff-box. The sleepy eyes did not lift. “Indeed?” said Sir Anthony, and awaited more.
“Three to one, the ruffians, and lucky I chanced along, for the lad’s not over strong in the sword arm, I take it. Game enough, but he was soon blown.”
“He was, was he?” Sir Anthony took snuff in a leisurely fashion. “And — er — was he hurt?”
“A blow on the shoulder. It seemed to knock him pretty well endways. But he said something of an old wound there, which would account for it,” said Belfort, feeling that some excuse was needed.
“Ah, an old wound?” Sir Anthony was politely interested. “Of course. That would, as you say, account for it.”
“There’s naught to be said against the lad’s courage,” Belfort assured him. “Game as a fighting cock, pledge you my word. I was all for taking him off to my lodgings to attend to his shoulder, but no, he’d none of it!”
“He refused to go with you, did he?” Sir Anthony nicked a speck or two of snuff from his sleeve.