“I am,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, with emphatic resolution, and glared in the young man’s face.
“That’s fair and reasonable,” said the man in the velveteen jacket; “if you can.”
The interest of the meeting seemed transferred to the young man in the white tie. “Of course, if you can’t find out which it is, I suppose you’re prepared to wipe your boots in a liberal way on everybody in the room,” said this young man, in the same tone of impersonal question. “This gentleman, the champion lightweight—”
“Own up, Charlie,” said the young man with the gaiters, looking up for a moment. “And don’t go a-dragging in your betters. It’s fair and square. You can’t get out of it.”
“Was it this—gent?” began Mr. Hoopdriver.
“Of course,” said the young man in the white tie, “when it comes to talking of wiping boots—”
“I’m not talking; I’m going to do it,” said Mr. Hoopdriver.
He looked round at the meeting. They were no longer antagonists; they were spectators. He would have to go through with it now. But this tone of personal aggression on the maker of the remark had somehow got rid of the oppressive feeling of Hoopdriver contra mundum. Apparently, he would have to fight someone. Would he get a black eye? Would he get very much hurt? Pray goodness it wasn’t that sturdy chap in the gaiters! Should he rise and begin? What would she think if he brought a black eye to breakfast to-morrow? “Is this the man?” said Mr. Hoopdriver, with a business-like calm, and arms more angular than ever.
“Eat ’im!” said the little man with the beard; “eat ’im straight orf.”
“Steady on!” said the young man in the white tie. “Steady on a minute. If I did happen to say—”