"Sit still, Mr. Vokes—remain seated, lest I pink you!" commanded Anthony, saluting him with the Captain's cane as if it had been a sword. The man Vokes stared, swore and rose up, whip in hand, whereupon Anthony lunged gracefully, thrusting the cane so extremely accurately into the middle of Mr. Vokes' waistcoat that he doubled up with marked suddenness and fell back helpless in his chair, groaning and gasping painfully.
"Now, my lads," quoth Anthony cheerily, as he picked up the whip, "the word is 'horses'! Come, bustle now!" and he cracked the whip like a pistol shot.
"Lord love me!" exclaimed the landlord, retreating precipitately. "I never see no thin' like this 'ere—no, never!"
"That'll do, my lad, that'll do!" said Anthony, flourishing the whip.
"In six minutes or so I expect the chaise at the door."
"But I can't drive a hoss wot's cast a shoe, can I, sir?" whined the postillion, his eye on the whip.
"You can get another, my lad."
"Theer ain't no other 'oss nowhere, except Mr. Vokes' mare!" quoth the ostler.
"Then of course Mr. Vokes will be glad to lend us his mare, I'm sure."
But here Black Whiskers found voice and breath for a very decided negative, with divers gasping allusions to Anthony's eyes and limbs. Hereupon Anthony betook him again to his posture of escrime, the cane-point levelled threateningly within a foot of Mr. Vokes' already outraged person.
"Fellow," said he, "next time address me as 'sir'—and say 'yes'!"