“Don’t you think,” cries Bath, “it is writ with great dignity of expression and emphasis of—of—of judgment?”
“I am surprized, though,” cries Booth, “that any one should write such a letter to you, colonel.”
“To me!” said Bath. “What do you mean, sir? I hope you don’t imagine any man durst write such a letter to me? d—n me, if I knew a man who thought me capable of debauching my friend’s wife, I would—d—n me.”
“I believe, indeed, sir,” cries Booth, “that no man living dares put his name to such a letter; but you see it is anonymous.”
“I don’t know what you mean by ominous,” cries the colonel; “but, blast my reputation, if I had received such a letter, if I would not have searched the world to have found the writer. D—n me, I would have gone to the East Indies to have pulled off his nose.”
“He would, indeed, have deserved it,” cries Booth. “But pray, sir, how came you by it?”
“I took it,” said the colonel, “from a sett of idle young rascals, one of whom was reading it out aloud upon a stool, while the rest were attempting to make a jest, not only of the letter, but of all decency, virtue, and religion. A sett of fellows that you must have seen or heard of about the town, that are, d—n me, a disgrace to the dignity of manhood; puppies that mistake noise and impudence, rudeness and profaneness, for wit. If the drummers of my company had not more understanding than twenty such fellows, I’d have them both whipt out of the regiment.”
“So, then, you do not know the person to whom it was writ?” said Booth.
“Lieutenant,” cries the colonel, “your question deserves no answer. I ought to take time to consider whether I ought not to resent the supposition. Do you think, sir, I am acquainted with a rascal?”
“I do not suppose, colonel,” cries Booth, “that you would willingly cultivate an intimacy with such a person; but a man must have good luck who hath any acquaintance if there are not some rascals among them.”