"Yes."
"But—my dear Chit! Surely you don't propose to—this fellow! Who is he? What is he? Look at his boots—oh, Gad!"
Hereupon Barnabas resumed his hat, and advancing leaned his clenched fists on the table, and from that eminence smiled down at the speaker, that is to say his lips curled and his teeth gleamed in the candle-light.
"Sir," said he gently, "you will perhaps have the extreme condescension to note that my boots are strong boots, and very serviceable either for walking, or for kicking an insolent puppy."
"If I had a whip, now," sighed the gentleman, "if I only had a whip,
I'd whip you out of the room. Chichester,—pray look at that coat, oh,
Gad!"
But Mr. Chichester had risen, and now crossing to the door, he locked it, and dropped the key into his pocket.
"As you say, the light is excellent, my dear Dalton," said he, fixing Barnabas with his unwavering stare.
"But my dear Chit, you never mean to fight the fellow—a—a being who wears such a coat! such boots! My dear fellow, be reasonable! Observe that hat! Good Gad! Take your cane and whip him out—positively you cannot fight this bumpkin."
"None the less I mean to shoot him—like a cur, Dalton." And Mr. Chichester drew a pistol from his pocket, and fell to examining flint and priming with a practised eye. "I should have preferred my regular tools; but I dare say this will do the business well enough; pray, snuff the candles."
Now, as Barnabas listened to the soft, deliberate words, as he noted Mr. Chichester's assured air, his firm hand, his glowing eye and quivering nostrils, a sudden deadly nausea came over him, and he leaned heavily upon the table.