"Nay I was expecting it and ready, George. I should have caught him on the riposte but I was short d'ye see——"
"Owing to ya' rib, Jack."
"Damn my rib!" exclaimed the Major. "'Tis pure folly I should be laid up and sit here like a lame dog for so small a matter as a rib, d'ye see——"
"'Tis more than ya' rib is wrong with ya', Jack!"
"A Gad's name, what?"
"A general gloom and debility induced by lack of and need for—a petticoat."
"Folly!" snorted the Major, but his pale cheek flushed none the less.
"Talking o' Dalroyd, ya' pinked his sword arm, Jack."
"But he's alive, alive George and now, now for all I know—where's Tom—where's Pancras? For all we know they may be fighting at this moment!" And the Major half rose from his elbow-chair.
"Content ya', Jack, content ya'!" said the Colonel, pressing him back with hands surprisingly gentle, "the lad's not fighting—nor likely to. I swear again, he shan't cross blades with Dalroyd or Effingham if I have to pistol the rogue myself, so ha' no worry on that score, Jack."