“Look here, guv’nor,” said he, “this ain’t no match. It’s a comedy scene for me, but it’s a nasty chunk of tragedy for you. You’d better go home.”
Rupert Greppel slowly rose, his face was very pale, and, pulling himself together, he went pell-mell, legs and arms, at the past-master of the craft; and Sim Crittenden, seeing he was beyond argument, punished him severely, then held him off with a couple of buffets in the face, and struck him over the heart with a blow that would have cracked a door.
Rupert’s heels clattered on the pavement, and he again sat down heavily.
“Take yer seats for Westminister Abbey,” said a wag; and there was laughter.
Lord Montagu Askew now complained that Mr. Crittenden’s acts were illegal and in bad taste.
Sim Crittenden walked up to the dandified figure of Monty Askew and gave him a sounding slap on the side of the head that knocked his silk hat into the gutter.
Monty went and picked up his hat amidst peals of laughter, and, holding out one expostulant gloved hand, he wiped his bleeding nose on a fine cambric handkerchief.
“You’re a most vulgar fellow,” he said—“a most vulgar fellow.”
The crowd cooed with merriment.
Crittenden went up to him and slapped his face with great strong hands.