“No,” said Mr. Warboys. He added scrupulously: “That is, not if he don’t ask me to. If he does — ask my father!”
“And you call yourself a friend of mine!” Martin said bitterly.
“Dash it, Martin, it ain’t the part of a friend of yours to second your opponent! Told you I’d act for you, didn’t I? Stupid thing to do, but not the man to go back on my word.”
“Barny, if he applies to you, will you act for him?”
Mr. Warboys scratched his chin. “Might have to,” he conceded. “But if I act for him, who’s to act for you? Tell me that!”
“Good God, anyone! Rockcliffe — Alston!”
“Ay, that will be a capital go!” said Mr. Warboys scathingly. “Why don’t you ask out the town-crier from Grantham, and ask him to act for you? Lord, Martin, dashed if I don’t think you must be queer in your attic!”
“Very well! I’ll have Caversham!” said Martin, a little taken aback, but recovering. “ He won’t talk!”
“No, and he won’t hear either!” retorted Mr. Warboys, justly incensed. “You can’t choose a man to be your second who has to have everything written down on a slate!”
“It makes no odds to me!” Martin said, picking up his gloves and his whip.